


Play it sweetly, take me down, oh jazzman

by lachesisgrimm (olga_theodora)



Series: play it sweetly, take me down [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: All the cool kids are doing it, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 80,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2656355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olga_theodora/pseuds/lachesisgrimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mark appeared one September morning when Phil Coulson was in his early twenties, scrawling itself in neat handwriting around one bicep in the space of time it took for him to pull off his t-shirt. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Be careful, that’s hydrochloric acid.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lift me above the old routine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [write love on my skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835587) by [amusewithaview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview). 



> So after the epic that was _In the Garden_ , I planned on taking a break. That lasted for about two days.
> 
> Story and chapter titles taken from Carole King's song "Jazzman."

The mark appeared one September morning when Phil Coulson was in his early twenties, scrawling itself in neat handwriting around one bicep in the space of time it took for him to pull off his t-shirt.

_Be careful, that’s hydrochloric acid._

“Well,” he said after a moment, so used to having his skin unadorned that he had made peace with his lack of a soulmate. “That’s surprising.”

His roommate laughed for a solid minute when he heard the story later, looking both terribly amused and rather pitying. “Never struck me as a cradle-robber, Phil.”

“Never wanted to be one,” he said in return, in an ill mood after a day of having his new adornment pointed out by everyone who caught a glimpse. “By the time she’s an adult, I’ll be- hell, Tommy. I’ll be twice her age.”

“Or his,” Tommy replied easily.

“Point.” Phil considered his mark. In his opinion, the slanted cursive looked feminine enough, but that might have been wishful thinking.

“You are going to have one hell of a mid-life crisis.”

“Shut up, Tommy.”

\- - -

The novelty faded after a few weeks. Somewhere in the world his soulmate was being rocked to sleep in her mother’s arms, but he had classes to attend and instructors to impress, and in a few short months he would be a full-fledged SHIELD agent. So he studied and trained and (occasionally) relaxed with his friends, thinking very little of his mark. 

He continued to casually date a fellow student, who shrugged when she saw his words for the first time. _Mind that step_ marched in orderly letters down one of her thighs, the ‘h’ unnaturally elongated. That their relationship was temporary was quite clear on both sides, and Phil saw no reason to play the monk for twenty or so years. 

“Could be platonic,” Rebecca pointed out one night in bed, her finger tracing over the ‘y’ on his arm. “Even if it’s not, practice makes perfect.”

“True.” He considered that point for a minute, realizing that even though he rarely thought about his mystery lady, he had already begun to reshape his life in small ways for her. “Am I a good lover?”

Rebecca thought longer on the question than he was comfortable with. “There’s always room for improvement.”

There was no disputing that, really. Already inclined to please his partner when possible, Phil began to seriously reconsider his technique. A year or so later, when Rebecca nearly tripped on an uneven staircase and was pulled back by someone from communications, they ended their relationship cleanly, with good feelings on both sides. 

There were other women, but Phil took care to keep his relationships light, and to keep his relationships _safe_ , because he found that he was fond of his unknown other half, and didn’t think it would be very fair to potentially bring disease into her bed. Despite his best intentions he had built up an image of her, knowing that it would be shattered. Smart, most likely, and young (obviously). He thought of her in vague terms, in the way that the future always seemed vague, keeping tabs on the time as it passed- five years, and then ten, and then fifteen.

He tried to stop thinking of her in the depths of the Guest House, when the GH325 trials went from being an unprecedented success to a legitimate nightmare. She didn’t fit amidst that tragedy, not his innocent girl with her warnings about hazardous chemicals. Phil was fairly sure that he didn’t deserve her, at that point, and was certain of it the night that Agent Greene hung herself with a bedsheet after covering the walls with that strange writing that Phil was no closer to understanding than he had been when it had first appeared. He ended Project Tahiti, and he took to avoiding the sight of his arm in the mirror, and refused- _refused_ \- to step foot in any labs he might come near.

\- - - 

Audrey’s soulmark read _You’re my light in the darkness,_ and if that wasn’t an advertisement for how shitty soulbonds could be Phil didn’t know what else was.

\- - -

Despite the amount of time Phil had spent trying to run away from his fate, his last thought as he hovered on the brink of oblivion, blood quickly evacuating his body, was of his science girl and the words he would never get to say to her fading from crisp black to gray on her skin. 

He hoped they had been good words, at least.

\- - - 

Life, take two. 

Sort of. 

Phil leapt at the chance to take on the mobile unit, relieved at the idea of finally, finally escaping the close quarters he had been keeping at the Hub. He wasn’t a prisoner, but trying to keep up his cover as a dead man made him feel that way, half the time. He had his sights set on his team: May, obviously. Grant Ward, vetted by Hill, and the infamous Fitzsimmons duo that he had been hearing whispers about ever since he returned from his beach vacation. The rumor mill said bonded pair, and nothing in their files disproved that theory, and so Phil went to make his offer without a qualm. 

And then, of course, he took a step too close to a particular table, and the petite brunette who had looked up at his entrance said, “Be careful, that’s hydrochloric acid,” completely oblivious to the fact that the words meant anything other than the warning that they were. 

His gaze sharpened, taking in neatly pulled back hair and her crisp, collared shirt before moving to her mouth and stopping there. He liked that mouth, and the part of him that wasn’t stymied by this revelation was wondering what she would taste like. 

“What are your feelings on jazz?” he asked, which was not the question he had intended to ask at all, but it slipped out all the same. 

She blushed, and it was one of the most fascinating sights he had seen in… well, in a while, anyway. “Hello.” She rubbed her hands nervously against her jeans, taking a step toward him. “You know, I’ve actually put some time into trying to answer that question,” she said, tugging her shirt to the side just enough for him to see _What are_ in his handwriting, sloping along her collarbone toward her shoulder. The writing was somehow still bold and black against her skin. “I’m not sure I’ve been listening to the right jazz.”

She smiled, but it was anxious. “Were you sick?” 

“What?”

She took another step toward him. “My mark- it nearly grayed out.” She kept edging toward him as he stood still, apparently braver than he was. “I was worried about you.”

“Injured.” She was close enough, now, to reach out and touch, and he held out a hand, remembering how his mother had raised him. “Phil Coulson.”

“Jemma Simmons.” Her hand lingered in his, small and warm, and he thought of SHIELD policies and how hazardous it could be to have soulmates on one team- soulmates with very differing levels of authority, at that- and was on the verge of saying goodbye and (authoritatively) fleeing the scene when a young man walked in. 

“All right, Simmons?” he asked, raising a brow, and Jemma turned to smile at him, her face alight with some emotion that kept Phil standing where he stood.

“Jazz,” was all she said, and he really couldn’t bring himself to leave her after that.

\- - -

They kept separate quarters on the Bus. It was only appropriate, after all, and he wasn’t the type of man to invite himself into his soulmate’s bed right after their initial meeting. She was a little bit shy of him, Jemma was, and after waiting so long he didn’t mind taking the time to do a bit of wooing- or at least as much wooing as he could get away with, as her superior officer, which was precious little. He had tried to have her reassigned, after their meeting, but for whatever reason Fury had barked out a laugh and told him to deal with it.

So he did deal with it… sort of. First there was Skye, and then a 084, and then Reyes of all people had shown up and blasted a hole in the damn Bus. He managed to find the time to speak with Jemma off and on- light, casual conversations, about families and hobbies and favorite movies. He liked how enthusiastic she was about her chosen field, and the warm consideration she extended to everyone on their team. He wouldn’t have minded getting closer, but bided his time, waiting for her to make the first move. 

And then she had jumped out of the fucking plane, and his timeline went out of the window.

“What did you expect me to do?” she asked later, after his official reprimand, after she had appeared in his quarters at midnight in pajamas. Without asking for permission she sat on the end of his bed, tucking her bare feet underneath her. “Take everyone with me? Fitz and Skye and- and _you_ , just plummeting into the ocean? How could you think that of me?”

She was upset, and understandably so, but he had been focusing intently on keeping calm ever since the Moroccan office had confirmed that they had fished his two agents out of the ocean, and on impulse he reached out and dragged her into his lap, curling around her and pressing his face against her marked shoulder. “I don’t give a fuck, Jemma,” he mumbled against her shirt, considering pulling the fabric aside to press his lips against the script crawling along her skin. Weren’t soulbonds supposed to be easy? Maybe his death had sent everything cock-eyed. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She had tensed at her sudden shift, but relaxed as he spoke, and finally pressed a hand against his hair. “I’ve been waiting for you, too,” she said softly. “My jazz man.”

It was the closest they had ever been, and distinctly inappropriate, considering their respective positions. “May I sleep here tonight?” she asked after a few minutes, her fingernails scraping gently against his scalp. “Just sleep?”

She was shaking, slightly, which made him remember that he was hardly the only one who had been given a scare that day, and hers had been much, much worse. “Yes,” he said, easing her down onto his bed, thinking that she was a very welcome addition. “Curl up with me, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Probably a lie, he thought ruefully, but she pressed herself up against him anyway, tucking her head under his chin. He had wondered, over the past few months, what she might like in bed, and he was no closer to a hypothesis now than he had been on first meeting her. She was warm, at least, her body slowly relaxing against his. It had been a long time since he had last held a woman, and she was a nice fit. 

“I would do it again,” she said quietly in the dark, and he sighed. 

“I know.”

\- - -

He should have stopped it the moment he realized what was going on, but he allowed realization to creep up on him. She kept appearing in his room in the middle of the night, slipping under the covers when he sleepily reached for her. At first she would stay for a few hours before disappearing to her own bunk, but then she started to linger, slipping away at the last moment. 

Before he knew it, her collared shirts and cardigans shared space with his suits, and he wasn’t entirely sure when that shift had happened. The team didn’t seem to give a damn that Jemma was sleeping in his quarters rather than her own, but then, soulbonds were given a surprising amount of leeway, even in SHIELD. 

“Have we gone at this backwards?” he asked her one night as she emerged from his (their) bathroom in her pajamas. “We’ve never even kissed.”

“And why is that?” she asked tartly, dropping onto the bed with a thump as he continued to stand at his desk. “Don’t I lean enough?”

He stared at her, bemused. “You’ve lost me,” he admitted, pulling at the knot on his tie. 

Surprisingly, she blushed. “Never mind.”

He couldn’t make heads or tails of that conversation, but it did make him pay a little bit more attention, and the first thing he noticed (at a mission briefing, of course, halfway through his opening spiel) was that her blouse was open one more button than usual, and that she was leaning against the holotable. Not very noticeably, but just enough to give him an excellent glimpse of her cleavage.

Her cleavage was very distracting, Phil found, and after that first glimpse he realized that she was doing it all the damn time, and only in his general direction. 

“AC,” Skye finally said with a sigh one afternoon, shortly after their encounter with the ghost who was most assuredly not a ghost, “just kiss her already.”

“Skye-”

“Or fuck her.”

_”Skye.”_

“She’s warm for your form, is what I’m saying, AC.”

He left the room at that. There was only so much indignity he could take. It was bad enough he was sharing quarters with a junior agent, but introducing sex into the equation would be (wonderful) a _very bad idea_.

He wasn’t Tony Stark, dammit.

\- - -

In the end, their first kiss was after his adventure with Raina’s memory machine, and it was more painful than pleasurable, because they were both a little desperate and he had a split lip. 

“ _Ow_.”

She tsked over him, dabbing more ointment on his lip. Her professional demeanor was completely outweighed by the way she was crowding onto his lap, pinning him to the bed. Thankfully, he had not been planning to go anywhere for the remainder of the night. “So, I don’t jump out of planes, and you don’t get kidnapped,” she said in seeming lightness, her eyes fixed on a bruise on his cheek. “A fair deal, I think.”

She was wearing one of his sweaters, and by the looks of it, she had been secretly raiding his side of the closet during his time away. “Miss me, Jemma?”

“Of course I did, you git.” She sniffed, and her voice took on a distinctive quaver. “Months of throwing my perfectly decent breasts at you, and it takes a near-death experience to get a bloody kiss.”

“Decent? _Decent?_ ” He stared at her, flummoxed. “Jemma, who the hell told you that your breasts were only _decent_?”

“It’s not like you’ve taken the time to look at them.”

A dare, definitely. It was clear that he had full leave to pull off her layers, but he had hoped for a better setting than post-abduction and covered in bruises. “Perhaps you would let me do a thorough inspection on furlough.” He caught her gaze, his hands itching to push up her sweater anyway and touch skin. “Fury’s practically begging me to take the time.”

She looked surprisingly hesitant. “Not if you’re going to back away, afterward. Will I have to go back to my little pod, Phil?”

Jemma had entrenched herself far too deeply into his life for that to happen. “No, sweetheart.” He wrapped his arms around her, trying not to grimace as he pulled her against his bruised ribs. “You stay right here.”

\- - -

It was a little town in the middle of nowhere in Greece, with a small house to themselves and a bed as big as he might have wished. 

“Perfect,” he announced that first afternoon, tracing his finger down the slope of one breast as she blushed. “Your breasts are perfect, Jemma.”

He moved closer, taking her in his arms as he pressed his lips against the word on her shoulder. The final ‘z’ in _jazz_ swooped almost whimsically across her skin, and he slid his tongue against the word, making her shiver. “My penmanship got a bit sloppy there, I see,” he murmured, tipping her back onto the sheets. “Yours is much neater than mine.”

She made such pretty little sounds, he was delighted to find, and the curves she hid under her cardigans were lovely and warm under his hands. He willingly rolled onto his back when she pushed upward, and she knelt beside him on the mattress, placing her fingers lightly on his scar. 

“Do you mind me touching it?” 

“Not you.” He watched as she examined the scar carefully, running her fingers over the edges.

“I just happened to be near a mirror, that day,” she said quietly, her gaze still on the ridge of scar tissue. “May I see your back?”

He rolled onto his side without a word.

“I was getting dressed after a shower, and I noticed that the words looked lighter. Day after day, lighter and lighter- and then one morning I woke up, and they were black again.” He rolled onto his back, staring up at her. “I was worried about you,” she said, her eyes soft. “My jazz man.”

He slid his hand over her hip, easing her down to lie beside him. “I’m sorry.” And he was- sorry that he had been the cause of her worry, for however long he had been stuck in the hell that was Tahiti. “What is it like?” he asked suddenly, stroking a finger along her curve of script, thinking of those words on an infant’s shoulder. “To know, from the beginning?”

She looked thoughtful as she considered the question. “Oh, it depended on my age,” she answered finally. “As a child I barely cared, and by the time I was a teenager I was very, very busy… too busy to dream overmuch, though I did end up curating a rather extensive jazz collection,” she admitted with a laugh. “I didn’t wait for you,” she said with sudden solemnity. “I hope that doesn’t matter to you- though frankly, Phil, I think it would be a bit hypocritical of you to expect a virgin, seeing as you obviously have experience.”

“I would have felt guilty if you had waited.” Phil knew a few people who had been born with their marks and still hadn’t met their soulmate until nearly half a century had passed. “I hope you had fun.”

She laughed again, snuggling closer. “It was pleasant enough,” she said. “And we’re both clean, so that isn’t a problem.” She stroked her fingers along her handwriting on his bicep. “Were you disappointed, to have the mark appear so late?”

“Not disappointed. Just surprised. I wasn’t sure that it would be fair to you, to be stuck with an old man.” He grinned, remembering her words. “A man of my age, even.”

Jemma blushed. “I’m very bad at flirting,” she muttered, pressing her face against his chest. “You’re lovely and fit.”

His work required him to stay in shape, but he couldn’t deny that he pushed himself a bit further than might have been expected, and did so with her in mind. “I’m glad you approve,” he murmured, stroking a hand down her side. “And you are… _lovely_. Warm and soft… responsive…”

She pulled him into a kiss and he rolled her underneath him, careful not to place all of his weight on her. 

“Took you long enough,” she said softly once he finally slid into her, her breathing quickening and her hands pressed firmly against his hips. “You’ve been trying my patience.”

His only response was a strangled gasp, and she smiled triumphantly as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even closer. “My jazz man,” she murmured in his ear. “My Phil.”


	2. he can sing you into paradise or bring you to your knees

It had taken months of wriggling her way under his shields, but Jemma had taken the measure of her soulmate soon after meeting him, and she had known that the first move would be hers to make, once she was ready. Even then, she had been patient, slipping into his life carefully and gently until she had rooted herself securely in place. 

She was, she thought as she stretched, very pleased with the result.

“I did notice, you know,” he said, seeming to catch her line of thinking. “Sort of.”

“You just didn’t do anything about it.” She tapped a finger softly against the tip of his nose, seriously considering whether she wanted a nap, or whether she wanted to tease him into a second round and then take a nap. “You just let me have my way, looking aside when my underthings and toothbrush started taking up space amid your belongings.”

“In my defense, you have very pretty underwear.”

“And now you get to look forward to actually seeing it on me, instead of lying next to your socks,” she said cheerfully. “Lucky for you.”

“That is lucky for me.” He was smiling at her, his expression open and warm. “How very sneaky you’ve been, Agent Simmons.”

She smirked. “How skittish you’ve been, sir.” She crawled over him, placing a light kiss on his scar. “I hope you weren’t afraid of me.”

“Maybe a little bit.”

“Oh, hush.”

\- - -

Jemma suspected that Phil felt the change more keenly than she did, once on the Bus. For her, it was rather simple: she liked sex in general, and she definitely liked having sex with _him_. Her position on the team had nothing to do with their time in bed together, and that was that.

Phil, though- he was careful to consider how any favoritism on his part might look, no matter that his handwriting was scrawled across her skin and vise versa. That didn’t stop him from being overprotective or from shagging her into the mattress at every possible opportunity, but it did mean the occasional strain on their relationship as he tried to balance maintaining professional authority with simultaneously being her partner. 

Then it all went to hell, slowly and thoroughly. 

Phil was keeping secrets. At first she barely noticed, but as the weeks wore on it became more and more clear that he was hiding something. Something important, something vital- and now something more, because he had returned from Mexico City with a heavy heart and unknown news that had left Skye looking shattered. Not Jemma’s business, perhaps, but she felt so raw that the knowledge scraped at her already frayed nerves.

She had lost him- Seth, who had thrown everything in with Donnie Gills and ultimately lost his life for it. Jemma was not a physician, no matter what role she played on the Bus, and she couldn’t help but feel that he wouldn’t have died if she had been faster, better, or possessed of some other knowledge. He was the first patient to die under her hands, and she wanted Phil’s soothing voice to pull her back from the precipice of _what if_ and _if I had_ , but though he had his arms around her in the dark, he wasn’t truly with her.

Jemma had no idea what to say that wouldn’t sound sharp or accusing, and so she kept her mouth shut. He was secretive, her soulmate, and she didn’t know whether a habit several decades ingrained could be changed. 

One thing she did know: she couldn't continue living like this, at least not in the long term. Jemma could accept secrets when they were above her level five classification, but she needed him to give her some kind of indication as to whether that was the issue. She needed an open line of communication, even if that communication boiled down to _I’ll tell you what I can, but I can’t tell you much_.

Instead he alternated a joking manner with utter seriousness, and no matter how often she laid herself bare, both literally and figuratively, he kept mum. He spoke of pleasantries and sweet-talked her and coaxed smiles out of her, but he never _talked_ to her, and it was driving her slowly mad.

And now a man- a boy, really- had died under her hands, and she hadn’t a clue how to move forward.

She didn’t cry. It would only wake him up. 

\- - -

“And what about us, sir?” she asked him, hearing the cool tinge to her words. Skye raised a brow across the holotable, but did not look surprised. 

“We need to talk about that,” was all he said, and waved for her to follow him up the stairs to his office and their mutual quarters. “Here.”

He pushed the small box across his desk, and she opened it to find a ring which gleamed dully in the light. She tilted her head to the side, slightly, wondering how long he had been hiding this away, and wondering if it had even been bought with her in mind at all. “I see,” she said finally, an ache developing in her stomach.

“I thought about playing father and daughter, but that would be too weird,” he said with unexpected lightness, flipping open a file. “We can play a squabbling couple for a few hours, right?”

She suspected it would be all too easy. “I suppose we can.” She placed the ring, still in its box, on his desk. “I’d better leave that with you for safe-keeping,” she said, her tone equally light. “Terrible things happen to jewelry in labs.”

It might have been a trick of the light, but she could have sworn that he looked a bit stunned- possibly even hurt- as she turned to leave.

They didn’t discuss the ring further, at least not for several hours. Instead they nodded politely at each other as they passed in the common areas of the Bus, and when night came she sat on the edge of his desk and gave him her best _come hither_ look. 

“Did you like the ring?” he asked, his tone very innocent for a man in the middle of a shag.

She was breathing fast and had been enjoying the novelty of being taken on top of his desk, and at his question she pressed her blushing face against his neck and tightened her grip on his shirt. “Was I supposed to?”

He stilled, pinning her against the wood, which was both delicious and highly frustrating. “You don’t like diamonds?”

She didn’t quite understand what he was getting at. Surely the man who had given her every indication of being a romantic hadn’t meant their earlier meeting to be a proposal. “Well, I suppose that would depend on how they were mined,” she said, deciding to be deliberately obtuse. 

He took a moment to consider her statement silently before redoubling his efforts. 

It was after he pulled away from her, leaving Jemma sprawled wearily on the desk’s surface, that he pulled open a drawer and placed the box carefully on the bare skin of her stomach. “You should get used to wearing it,” he said, walking away toward the bathroom. “It needs to look like second nature.”

She lifted her head to blink confusedly at the box, absolutely clueless as to his motives. She had known that they were having problems communicating, but this- this was a new low.

Still, the ring did fit, and he kissed her hand once they were both in bed together. She fiddled with the band in the dark, resisting the urge to sigh as she realized that she was proving his point.

“Do you like the ring, Phil?” she asked after a half an hour or so of trying to fall asleep, knowing that he was also still awake beside her.

“I picked it out, didn’t I?” he replied, and she gave up. That secretive little bastard.

\- - -

They played an excellent squabbling couple, though in retrospect accusing him of cheating on her with prostitutes had gone a bit too far. The entire operation had been a muck-up, really, from the moment she had started her rant about him never liking her (fictional and sadly departed) mother to when she had been shocked awake and had leveled a gun at him in her panic. 

And then Skye had been shot, and Jemma’s problems disappeared into smoke. She wasn’t a physician- _she wasn’t a bloody physician_ \- and this was worse than Seth, much worse, and Phil was snapping at her and demanding a fucking miracle as if she could pull it out of her back pocket. The shock of it hit her when she was in the supply closet, trying to wipe Skye’s blood off of her hands. The drying blood just smeared rust red across her skin, over the gold of that damn ring, lodging itself in the setting of the diamonds. She pulled it off with shaking hands, dropping it into one of the boxes as she began to weep. 

It was Fitz who came and found her. He was not the man she wanted, but he was her beloved friend and would have to be enough. “It’s all right, Jem,” he murmured into her hair. “Skye’s tough; she’ll pull through and you’ll win the day.”

She wanted those words from Phil- she wanted any kind word from Phil- but as the hours dragged on the only words he spoke to her were questions about Skye’s condition. That was right and proper, because Jemma was almost out of her mind with worry about Skye as well, but he was looking straight through her, as if he had given some other woman a kiss good luck before setting out just that morning. He wandered to and from the bay and his office like a ghost while she stayed still, hovering over Skye as if only her presence were keeping the other woman from slipping into the shadows permanently.

“You need to go to bed,” May told her around three in the morning, startling her out of an uncomfortable doze. “You’ve done all you can, Simmons.”

Which had been precious little. “If she codes-”

“I’ll wait here.” May pulled her out of her chair, making sure Jemma was steady on her feet before claiming her seat. “I’ve been trained. Go to bed.”

Jemma stumbled up the stairs to the common area without further protest. The halls were quiet and dim, and she stopped at the bottom of the staircase to her quarters, unable to move forward. Phil would be up there, waiting for news. If she appeared and crawled into bed as May ordered, what would he do? What would he think of her abandoning her post?

She couldn’t take the chance that he might give her a disappointed look or speak harshly to her, and so she moved to her old pod, slipping between the dusty, cold sheets, and cried herself into a headache.

\- - -

May appeared at the door to his office, and as he watched she glanced to the side to take in the conspicuous lack of a bed. He hadn’t bothered to unfold the couch that made up his bunk. What was the point? He certainly wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. 

“What are you doing, Phil?” she asked, her lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Resisting the urge to pummel Quinn into paste,” he answered honestly. “Any change in her condition?”

“No.” She was glaring at him, he realized. “I sent Jemma to bed an hour ago.”

His first instinct was to protest that Jemma was the closest thing they had to a trained medical professional. His second- and it shocked him, a little, how long it took him- was to look toward the space where the bed and Jemma should have been. “I haven’t seen her,” he said numbly, trying to remember how she had looked when he had last visited the lab. 

“Obviously not. If you had actually been keeping an eye on her, you might have realized long before now that she’s on the verge of having a panic attack.” May’s gaze softened slightly when she saw that he was actually listening. “We’re all afraid for Skye, but you can’t go alone on this, Phil. That’s not an option for you anymore.”

She disappeared out the door before he could respond, leaving him slumped in his chair. May rarely spoke of anything having to do with soulbonds- May, whose _Need a lift?_ had been gray ever since Bahrain- and this was definitely her equivalent of kicking him in the ass. 

There was only one place Jemma could have gone, and he found her just where he expected to find her: curled up in a tight fetal position in her former pod, breathing unevenly in her sleep. He briefly considered trying to carry her upstairs, but he knew his limits, and the odds that he would trip on the staircase were high, given how tired he was. Instead he slid the door shut behind him and pulled off his wrinkled jacket and tie before kicking off his shoes. 

She stirred as he climbed into bed with her. After a few seconds her mind woke up enough for her to jerk away, and the frantic look on her face in the dim light was a punch to the gut. “Skye?” she asked in a whisper, trying to crawl over him toward the door. 

“No, sweetheart,” he said as soothingly as he could, catching her by the waist. “She’s the same. It’s time to take care of you, now.”

She stilled, one hand lying cold against his arm. “It’s okay for me to sleep?” she asked quietly, and he had screwed this up _royally_ , oh fucking hell. 

“More than okay. Lie down, love. Time to rest.”

She lay down cautiously, creeping her arm around him. “I did my best,” she said, the tip of her nose cold against his neck. Had they cut off the heat to this pod? Every inch of her felt chilled. “I really did.”

“I know you did, sweetheart.” He pulled her closer, mentally chastising himself. “No one could have done more. I’m so proud of you.”

“I just don’t know what you want anymore,” she admitted, her voice cracking as she began to cry. “You’re keeping secrets and pulling rings out of desk drawers and I keep trying to make you happy and I just can’t. I don’t know how.”

What had started as a wish not to burden her with his fraught medical history (and a fear that maybe, possibly, she might look at him _differently_ once she knew) had grown into a barrier between them, and he hated himself for hurting her. And the ring had been- the ring had been a stupid mistake. Not the purchasing of it, but the way he had handed it to her so casually. It had fit their cover, and he had wanted to see it on her hand, but the moment she had opened the box and taken in that breath he had known that he had gone about it in the most idiotic manner possible. 

“I’m the one in the wrong,” he told her firmly, cradling the back of her head in one hand. “It’s not your fault at all, Jemma, and I’m going to make it up to you.”

“I just want you to talk to me again.”

He wanted to stab himself in the heart when he heard the plaintive note in her voice. Fate should have let him be and given her someone kinder, someone with an actual brain in his head. “I’m going to tell you everything,” he promised. “But I need you to sleep now. The whole story will take awhile.”

“Even if-”

She faltered, and he caught her drift easily enough. “Even if we lose Skye. No matter what, I tell you everything.”

She took in a deep breath, and whispered, “But you’re happy with me?”

“I’m so happy with you,” he said earnestly, a few tears of his own sliding down his cheeks. “I’ve just been an ass.”

“You’ve been _such_ an ass,” she mumbled against his chest. 

“A monumental ass. It’s okay, love. Go to sleep. Dream up a few more insults; I’ll be happy to hear them tomorrow.”

He wrapped himself around her as she continued to shiver. There was a blanket on the bed, but it didn’t seem to be doing her much good. “Do you want to move upstairs?”

She nodded, sniffling, and followed him up the stairs, her cold hand still in his. “There you are, dear,” he murmured, helping her out of her rumpled and bloodied clothing and into her warmest pajamas before tucking her into bed under several blankets. She burrowed back into his arms when he joined her, which he did not deserve at all, in his mind.

He was still worried about Skye, and now even more so. He had hurt Jemma enough with his silence; he didn’t want to see her grief if her hard work ended with Skye flat-lining in her glass coffin.

\- - -

“We’re a half an hour out,” were the quiet words that woke her, and she blinked up at Phil, feeling as if she were in the throes of a full-fledged hangover. He gave her a soft smile, looking more open than he had in weeks. He was dressed in a fresh suit and had obviously been awake for at least an hour or two. “Skye’s still hanging in there. May’s been monitoring her vitals, and they have an operating suite ready for her at the hospital.”

She nodded slowly, grimacing slightly at her splitting headache. Apparently stress and a bout of intense crying had a similar effect on her system as half a bottle of scotch, which was an unpleasant bit of information. “Are we still okay?” she asked tentatively, sneaking her hand over his. 

His expression took on a sorrowful cast, which she initially misread. “We’re going to be fine. After- after we settle this, you and I are going to take a few days. I’ll tell you everything.”

He dropped a kiss onto her forehead, only to pull back, frowning. “I think you have a fever.”

“I’m just overwrought,” she said, sitting up and trying not to wince. “A shower and some aspirin and I’ll be right as rain.”

He didn’t lose the frown, but he did help her out of bed and stood back as she pulled together an outfit. She did feel a little better after a shower- a very little- and she swallowed her dose of aspirin dry, feeling her stomach roil in response. 

She bypassed the kitchen, heading immediately for the lab. She found Ward there, hovering over the hyperbaric chamber with ill-concealed anxiety. “Is there anything else you can do?” he asked, which did not help her headache or nausea. “Anything? She’s so pale.”

Of course Skye was pale; she was in shock and losing blood every second, even in the pressurized environment of the chamber. “I’ve done all I can,” Jemma said dully, almost falling into a nearby stool. She felt absolutely wretched, and if it weren’t for the fact that a dear friend would shortly be heading into surgery she would have crawled back into bed. “Two bullets to the gut… there isn’t much I can do.”

He continued to prowl through the lab until the landing forced him to take a secure seat, and then he hastened after Skye and the paramedics who came to fetch her from the Bus. Jemma kept her seat, too tired to move until the others came clattering down the steps. May passed her by, and Fitz (with a worried glance), but Phil stopped by her side, extending a hand. 

“You don’t have to come,” he said softly, and she shook her head. 

“I have to.”

The aspirin did kick in, eventually, and at some point Phil disappeared and came back with a cup of tea and a package of peanut butter crackers which he nudged into her hands, and that helped as well. She dozed for a while against his shoulder as he tried repeatedly to reach Fury, only to fully wake when the surgeon came through the door with her news. 

“We are her family,” Phil said, and her heart broke. 

\- - -

He handed her his file, a pleading look in his eyes, and while it wasn’t the conversation she had wanted, the information she held in her hands went a long way toward explaining his silence. 

“This isn’t possible,” she said as she flipped through the pages, feeling as if she were reading science fiction. “Phil, this just isn’t possible.”

“And yet.”

She sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead. Her headache had returned with a vengeance. “And yet.”

\- - -

Phil was tired of lies, and he figured that he had hardly scraped the surface of the web of fraudulence that surrounded his second life. Bethesda was a dead end, and the Guest House- _the Guest House_. What he had seen there- he hadn’t a clue how to process what he had seen there. 

And to arrive back in Skye’s medpod just as Jemma was injecting the GH325 into her, seconds too late to do anything. He had no idea if saving her would be worth the eventual cost, but a look at Jemma’s white face had made him stop his mouth after his initial warning. 

Jemma had his file open on the bed when he returned to their quarters that evening, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze. They had not had the time to have the conversation he had promised her, but the file was the truly damning evidence, and she had yet to pass a final verdict on it. “You saw something in the Guest House, didn’t you?” she asked quietly, one hand resting lightly on the file. “Something that terrified you.”

Alien corpses tended to have that kind of effect on a man, in Phil’s experience. “The GH325 has an alien origin,” he told her, turning his back to shuffle papers on his desk so that he wouldn’t have to see her face. “I saw- I saw the source, and I don’t have a clue what kind of side-effects I might eventually have, or Skye might have.”

She was silent for a moment, but then she said, “Come here,” in a tone he didn’t dare ignore. 

Jemma wasn’t smiling, exactly, but her expression was soft. “We’ll get through it,” she said, placing her hands on the sides of his face so that he couldn’t look away from her. “And as long as you stop being so secretive, you might even live through it,” she continued, with just enough exasperation in her voice to make him huff out a laugh. 

“Does it bother you?” She gave him a questioning look, and he shrugged self-consciously. “The whole being dead thing.”

After a moment of thought she slid her fingers over the pulse point on his wrist. “Pulse is steady,” she said. “Your skin is warm; your body reacts to stimuli; you think and speak rationally. All signs point to being a living human being.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he gently pointed out.

“You’re here, Phil.” She looked almost at a loss, for once. “My mark is still black, and you haven’t displayed any signs that you’re interested in eating brains, so… so I think you’re as alive as anyone can be. And I still want you.” She kept her fingers over his pulse, a slight but meaningful weight. “Can you make room for me, do you think?”

“Yes.” It would take work, but he was no stranger to that. “Will you promise to tell me if I start to shut you out again? I might need your help to stay on track, I’m afraid.”

“Will you listen?”

The fact that she had to ask was just another sign of how far he had drifted from her. “I promise.” He noted for the first time that she no longer wore the ring, and was not surprised. That particular ring deserved to be consigned to a dark drawer. Maybe he would even ask Skye to sell it on ebay, once she was back on her feet.

“Will you tell me something true?” she asked, and blushed slightly. “Something. Anything.”

He took her hands, now cold and chapped, and held them between his own. “Let me tell you what I saw,” he said, his throat tightening even as he silently acknowledged that this was something she needed, and deserved, to hear. “What I remembered when Raina put me under.”


	3. the band is windin' low

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm sticking fairly close to canon this time around, and because some of the dialogue in _Turn, Turn, Turn_ worked so incredibly well, I've incorporated it into this chapter, particularly with Victoria Hand and John Garrett.

“I’m going to run some more thorough tests on Skye’s blood,” Jemma told him stubbornly as she packed her bag, and after a moment he nodded. 

“I figured.”

“It’s not just for her. It’s for you,” she continued, her tone as if he had never spoken. “I’m going to find out everything I can, and then we’ll be ready, just in case.”

“Okay.” 

She turned away from her half-packed bag, her expression anxious. “We’re okay?”

“We’re okay,” he assured her, slipping his arms around her. “You’re on the right path.”

She nodded absently, sneaking her hands under his jacket to rest against his back. “Be careful. Make note of anything odd.”

Symptoms, she meant, of yet unknown mystery side-effects. “I’ll take my temp on the hour and everything.”

She ducked her head, hiding what little he had been able to see of her expression. Their relationship was fractured, though in retrospect Phil wasn’t entirely sure that it had ever been solid in the first place. He had been well-intentioned, at the start, but then life had gone topsy-turvy and he still hadn’t quite recovered from the shock- and worse, he had allowed Jemma to become collateral damage. 

She still slept beside him at night, and he didn’t know why. He had offered, early on, to sleep somewhere else- in her old pod, if necessary- but she had told him firmly to stay put. Maybe she liked the added warmth, or maybe she felt more comfortable knowing where he was (he suspected the latter), but the way she nestled against his side once the lights were out was the extent of their physical relationship. She had become shy of him again, and he could scarcely blame her.

In all his thoughts about his future partner, he had never quite stopped to think about their relationship beyond the surface. He had hoped for someone who would laugh at his jokes, someone who would be happy to see him at the end of a long day. He had hoped for a good sexual relationship, eventually, and had looked forward to putting into play some of his more romantic notions. 

He had neglected to consider the need to compromise and communicate, and that he would have to change some lifelong habits out of consideration to his other half. Phil had always been secretive- he had been trained to be as secretive as possible- and that had nearly been their undoing. 

Perhaps life would have been easier, without such an indelible reminder of fate. To choose rather than to be chosen, and to live with a different kind of uncertainty. Films made soulbonds look so easy, as if in the space of a song two people could become a seamless pair. In real life soulmates parted ways all the time, when the sheer amount of work it took to mesh often conflicting personalities and lifestyles became too great a burden. 

Jemma, though... there had been moments in their relationship that had proved to him they had something worth holding on to, and he was determined to put in the work. 

“Stay in touch?” she asked, moving one hand to rest against where his scar lay under his shirt. “I don’t want to be left in the dark.”

“I’ll keep you up to date.” At least she would be surrounded by agents in the Hub, safe in one of their labs. “We’ll figure this out soon enough. I still owe you that vacation.”

“Anywhere but Italy.”

“Split it is.” He let his head rest against hers, hoping that Trip was as trustworthy as he seemed. “Don’t let anyone know what you’re working on,” he warned her quietly. “I’ve got so many more secrets to spill, Jemma. I need you safe for that.”

She nodded, one arm still wrapped around his back. “My favorite color is red.” She peeked up at him without loosening her grip. “I don’t think I ever said.”

“I’m glad to know.”

“I just don’t have very many secrets,” she explained. “I’ll have to dredge up something.”

“Don’t worry.” He brought up a hand, placing his fingers lightly on one cheek. “This isn’t quid pro quo.”

“Still.” She kept his gaze, and then rose onto her toes, her lips brushing his lightly. “I want to listen to some jazz with you, one night. All your favorites.”

“Will you dance with me?”

“Yes.” She stepped back, and he caught her hands in his before she moved out of reach. She had lost her pallor, at least, and her skin felt as warm as it should. 

“I need you safe,” he said again, and kissed her palms. “I need you.”

\- - -

The day went south the moment Jemma left the Bus. Skye’s test results made no sense- no sense, none at all- and now gunshots were echoing down the corridors, even through the locked door she waited anxiously behind. Trip had handed her a knife, though, which was certainly a first in Jemma’s illustrious career. The last thing she had used a knife for had been chopping vegetables. 

And then Hand and her men had come marching in, and Jemma could have kicked herself for immediately throwing up her hands like a scared rabbit when they gave the order. Hand seemed to focus briefly on the few letters that peeked out from under Jemma’s blazer before beginning her spiel- a spiel which had proved to be a test and a veritable bombshell of information.

Hydra. It was almost too fantastical to be believed, but then again Jemma was the one sharing a soulbond with (in Trip’s words) a zombie robot back from the dead. And that was a problem- and Jemma knew it would be a problem even before Hand turned to her and strong arms held her in place. 

“We may not be Hydra, but Coulson is,” Hand said coolly. “And you might seem to have passed my test, but I can’t take any chances. At worst he’s converted you, at best we can use you as bait to pull him in.” She turned as one of her men clasped heavy shackles around Jemma’s wrists, and Jemma caught Trip’s eyes before he could protest. It wouldn’t do him any good; it would just end with a bullet in his brain. 

It was ludicrous, of course. Even with as many secrets as Phil had been keeping, Jemma could not imagine any universe in which he turned traitor to SHIELD, and certainly not by throwing in with Hydra. The unofficial (possibly official) president of the Captain America fanclub did not join forces with the enemy. 

Still, her logic wouldn’t do a damn thing to keep her from being chained to a table in an interrogation room. 

Interrogation rooms, Jemma was dismayed to find, were very boring when you were the only occupant- though admittedly, she didn’t want to experience what such a room would be like with someone else on the other side of the table.

And handcuffs were ridiculously uncomfortable.

\- - -

Phil was the one who asked Fitz to add an encrypted line to the Bus, and the ramifications of such a simple order were staggering. May as the Clairvoyant, or in league with the Clairvoyant- impossible, ridiculous, totally out of character.

Then the truth spilled, and for a moment Phil almost wished that she were the enemy after all. 

_Someone who could repair your body._

The look on Fury’s face when Phil had admitted the bond suddenly made a lot more sense.

“Maybe she didn’t know,” Garrett said with a shrug when Phil admitted his worry. “Your girl’s the best, right? May got the best.”

“May would have recognized my handwriting,” Phil replied dully. 

“Doesn’t mean your girl was complicit.” 

A good point. Phil couldn’t imagine Jemma wading hip deep into May’s little conspiracy. She wasn’t that good a liar, not the woman who had cried in his arms over his own lies of omission. “I sent her to the Hub.”

Garrett nodded, his expression sharp. “She’s a bargaining piece, Coulson,” he pointed out shrewdly. “Anyone ranked as highly as Hand would know that you’ve marked that girl, and she’s going to know that you’ll come after her. Hurting Agent Simmons won’t help their cause a whit.”

Soulmarks couldn’t be gotten rid of. Temporarily concealed, perhaps, but the only long-term solution was to sacrifice the limb along with the mark. The black bled through scars, through burns, through tattoos. The lucky ones could conceal their marks under their clothing, but portions of Jemma’s mark were plainly in view with all but her most conservative blouses, emblazoned as proudly as if he had taken pen and ink to her himself. 

Hand would know, and he had no idea how far she would go to try and get the results she wanted. 

He found himself wandering back along the corridors, not entirely sure why or where he was going until he stopped in front of May, her wrists still clasped in steel. “Why did you do it?”

She knew exactly what he was asking, and she leaned back in her chair, staring up at him. “You were avoiding the labs.”

He had been- and he still didn’t remember quite why, but he must have had a reason. “You altered their files,” he said in realization. “Jemma’s file- I thought-”

“That she was bonded with Fitz,” she finished. “I might have added a few strong hints to her dossier, but most people have been making that mistake for years. I saw the first word of her mark, and she was exactly what I needed for the team… so I nudged you in her direction.” She didn’t look apologetic in the slightest. “You know how it works, Phil. The mark is a guarantee. If I hadn’t sent you down there, you would have found your own way, eventually.”

Just because it was a guarantee of meeting that other person didn’t mean that it was fair. “It would have been better in any other way. I’ve hurt her, I’ve _used_ her, and I’m not- it would have been better at a distance,” he said, switching tactics mid-stream. “She would have been safer, if I had just been the man who came into town every few months and romanced her.”

“Safe from you,” May replied bluntly. “Not safe from anyone else, and given what’s happening at the Hub, I think it is quite likely that some Hydra agent would have swooped in before they broke cover and carried her off to some hidden spot, for leverage.”

“She should have been safe from me.”

May sighed, looking weary and frustrated. “You’ve fucked up.” She said the words plainly, not breaking eye-contact. “Some men would run, and some men wouldn’t care, but I know you, Phil. You’ve already started to make things right. You won’t tell her just enough and then roll her into bed- you’ll tell her everything and then try to sleep on the damn floor. Count your blessings that Jemma is the type of woman who won’t let you play the martyr.”

She refused to talk with him, after that, and he knew May well enough to know that nothing short of divine intervention would get another word out of her before she was ready.

It was Skye who found him after he hid away in his office, and the first thing she did was pull up her shirt to reveal the jagged lettering that curved along her ribs. “‘It’s under the fucking table’,” she quoted, utterly dead-pan, and then dropped the fabric to resettle around her hips. “Freaked the nuns out when they first got a look, let me tell you.”

“Is there a reason for this show and tell?”

“I’ll be straight with you, AC.” She was holding herself stiffly, obviously upset. “If someone recognized my handwriting on my other half and pushed me in their direction, I would probably pay them.”

There were services that did just that, but he didn’t think that was the answer she was looking for. “May didn’t do it to be altruistic.”

If there hadn’t been orders to keep an eye on him, and if he hadn’t gotten caught up in keeping his secrets- that might have been another thing entirely. If he had been a less scarred man, emotionally, he might have hauled May to the front of the room to toast her at his wedding.

“Apparently not.” She dropped into the chair across from him with the expression of someone who was claiming space. “But she did, and now Jemma’s depending on you to pull your own weight. She still gets starry-eyed over you, sometimes.” Skye raised a brow, indicating that she didn’t quite know why, and he couldn’t blame her. “We’ll be talking and then suddenly she’ll say something about you with this soft little smile.”

He knew that smile. He liked it quite a bit.

“Have you ever considered going back to school to become a therapist?”

“Very funny.”

\- - -

“There is no way that Phil is Hydra,” Jemma said stubbornly the moment Hand stepped into the interrogation room. “He’s a good man; he’s-”

“He’s a liar.” The words were said sharply and with a sense of finality, and damn, Jemma really couldn’t think of a good retort to that. “Agent Blake came to me with his suspicions.”

The list of Phil’s crimes was long, and Jemma herself was on that list- _disobeying a direct order_ , and hadn’t he just- and Hand capped it off with, “The lies add up, Agent Simmons. Are you telling me he’s never kept a secret from you?”

He had kept everything from her, and in the second that Jemma struggled for breath and tried to regain her equilibrium Hand’s expression turned vindicated. “The worst thing you can do right now is underestimate Hydra. They hide in plain sight, they earn our trust, our sympathy, they make us like them. And when you hesitate, they strike. If we’re to survive, we must learn to strike first.”

She didn’t want to believe Hand, but it all made so much sense and yet such little sense. The same man who kept secrets from her was the same one who had cooked for her in Greece, the same man who had treated her so tenderly before pushing her away. 

“It’s not him,” Jemma said again quietly.

“I have to disagree.” Hand took the chair across the table, her gaze direct and brooking no nonsense. “Confess now and you won’t be court-martialed for treason. That’s my deal.”

Jemma looked away, heartsick, and kept her mouth shut.

\- - -

It was a day for betrayal, apparently.

“-and she used the same machine on you that she used to brainwash that bitch in the flower dress, and now she’s probably doing the same to Agent Simmons.” Garrett’s grin was sharp and humorless. “Do you want to see that vacant look in your girl’s eyes the next time you see her?”

The thought of Jemma in the machine nearly distracted him from a very important piece of information. “I never mentioned that,” Phil said slowly, and Garrett didn’t even blink. 

“I’m telling you, killing her quick would be a mercy.”

“I never said Raina had been inside the machine.” It made sense, it made so much fucking sense. Garrett, Garrett and his high clearance level and the way he kept mentioning Jemma in every other sentence, knowing that he could push Phil into doing something rash with the right incentive. 

Garrett’s attempts to steer the conversation back to safe ground were in vain, and before Phil knew it a handful of loyal SHIELD agents lay at his feet, never to rise again. 

“Hail Hydra,” Garrett said slyly, and the words echoed back nightmarishly.

It took a sudden and superbly timed explosion to turn the tables, and it was Fitz- brilliant, surprisingly brave Fitz- who tossed Coulson the grenade that ultimately knocked Garrett out. 

The only plus to the entire bad scene was that it thoroughly convinced Hand of his innocence, and given that Jemma was nowhere to be seen he knew that he would have been too impatient to defend himself in any useful way otherwise. “Where is she?”

“What would you do, if the soulmate of the man you considered the enemy was within your grasp?” she replied dryly, which was not the answer he wanted. From what he knew about Victoria Hand, their methods of dealing with that kind of situation were probably very different. 

Hand detoured on her way to the nerve center of the building, cutting a knowing glance at him when the hall she turned down looked distinctly tattered after Skye and Ward’s fun with explosives. “I hope the blast didn’t bring the roof down on Agent Simmons,” she said crisply, ignoring him as he immediately pushed his sleeve up higher to check his words. Still black, but that didn’t rule out injury. 

The interrogation room was far too close to ground zero for Phil’s comfort, and the door, once opened, revealed toppled chairs and crumbling ceiling tiles, but no Jemma- or so it appeared.

The chains that kept her bound to the heavy steel table snaked over the edge, pinned in place by the frame of a chair wedged between the table and the wall. “Oh, good,” she said wearily when he pushed the chair out of the way and helped her back into the light. “I was beginning to lose feeling in my hands.”

She was covered in dust and coughing occasionally, but it was the cut and battered skin under the cuffs that worried him. It was difficult to get a good look, because the second she was close enough she pressed herself against him. Momentarily giving up on first-aid, he wrapped his arms around her, taking a few precious seconds to hold her close.

Jemma glanced over at Hand once they pulled apart, the other woman standing by stoically as Phil unlocked the cuffs and examined the damage. “Have you been cleared, then?” she asked him, and he looked up to see concern on her face. 

“The real Clairvoyant is in custody.” He tried for a grin, but it was a bit weak. “Lucky for me.”

“Lucky for us.” 

She barely flinched as he finished his examination, frowning over the bruised and puffy skin that bordered torn flesh. “Let’s do something about this, hmm? Even I have enough training to take care of wounds like these.” He kept his voice quiet and gentle, worried that she was on the edge of shock. “Much easier than pulling a bullet out of May’s arm, anyway. She’s fine,” he added when Jemma immediately straightened. “No major harm done.”

There was an extensive first-aid kit in the briefing room, and Phil carefully cleaned and bandaged Jemma’s wrists as Hand went over their recent losses. She was very, very quiet- too quiet, he thought, even for the circumstances. After he finished his work he wrapped an arm tentatively around her shoulders, and was relieved when she moved closer.

“So that’s it,” Phil said in disbelief once Hand was through, staring at the map that was now less SHIELD and far more Hydra red. “In the space of hours we crumble to dust.” 

“We might be the only level eight agents left,” Hand said grimly, and he offered her a small smile. 

“Guess you’d better start calling me Phil.”

Judging by her utter lack of response, he wouldn’t be calling her Vick anytime soon. 

\- - -

What should have been their time to regroup and repair quickly turned into a desperate flight away from the Hub, with a leaking fuel line, low rations, and probably at least a half a dozen other major problems that Jemma wasn’t aware of. Her wrists ached, and she resisted the urge to take another dose of aspirin, conscientiously following the recommended daily dosage even though this was hardly an average day.

“Um, Jemma?”

She looked up to find Skye hovering in the lab’s doorway, an awkward expression on her face. “I need your badge.”

Jemma didn’t quite understand her words at first. Her badge was tucked securely in one of the pockets of her dust-streaked trousers, such a familiar presence that she had barely noted the weight against her leg. “My badge.”

“AC asked me to collect them.” Skye shifted her weight, an obvious tell of how uncomfortable she was. “And to wipe every trace of us from the internet.”

Jemma placed the box she had been holding on the table in front of her, considering the implications thoroughly.

“Jem?”

“I’ll take it to him myself,” she said, brushing past Skye without meeting her eyes. 

He was seated at his desk when she entered his office, his gaze so distant that it took him a moment to realize that she had entered the room. “Skye said you wanted this,” she said, placing her badge carefully in the center of his desk. She was sure that Skye had been thorough in her purge- gone were the records of Jemma’s accolades, her barely touched facebook account, the traces of her scattered throughout the internet and whatever databases Skye could hack her way into. All that remained of Jemma’s professional career was that badge, and now that, too, was nothing. 

“I don’t have a choice.”

“I know.” His logic was sound, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. “Where are we going, Phil?”

He shrugged, his expression bleak. “I don’t know.”

It would have been easy to leave the room and allow him to trace and retrace whatever path his thoughts were fruitlessly wandering. She wasn’t sure that he would accept comfort, at this point, and she wasn’t entirely certain that she wanted to give it. She didn’t feel quite right- not with him, not even with herself. The entire situation was almost too surreal for comprehension.

“May created the team,” he said into the silence, his gaze directed toward her badge. “She’s been reporting to Fury, in case I snap.”

Jemma glanced down toward her mark, catching a glimpse of black lettering. “She picked me.”

“She picked you.”

“Well, fate picked me,” Jemma amended, tapping her fingers against her thigh. “But I’m sure she thought I would be useful in the long run.” Her throat felt dry and tight, and a part of her was seriously considering going to their closet and hiding in a corner. “A nice little distraction for you.”

His head snapped up at that, a look of horror on his face that she barely registered. “No, not like that.”

She shrugged, unconvinced. “Maybe like that.” She sat in a nearby chair, too tired to run and hide. “We have four hours of fuel.”

He had rounded his desk as she took her seat, and perched on the edge of the couch. “I do owe you that vacation.”

Her laugh in response was harsh. “And this is quite the time.”

After a moment he reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out his badge, tossing it on top of hers. It should have been a moment of finality, but a flash of light caught her eye, and she leaned in to take a closer look. A series of numbers lit up the border of the SHIELD emblem, and in a way she couldn’t even bring herself to be surprised. 

“Those do appear to be coordinates,” she said calmly as he snatched up the badge, and he gave her a bewildered look. 

“Fury?”

“Or Hydra,” she replied easily. The sense of calm she felt was unnatural. “I swear, Phil, you get out of more bad situations than the Starship Enterprise.”

\- - -

She was the first to follow him out of the Bus into the snow, and the only one who knew that there would be no turning back from their arctic sojourn. He did not think she was well, not exactly- it was shock, or anger, or some soul-deep depression, and whatever it was it scared the hell out of him- but after a few minutes her gloved hand slipped into his own and held on tightly.

She didn’t move away, not even when they seemed to a hit a dead end, but stood beside him in calm silence as frustration overrode his tongue and temper. When he flung his badge into the air he had a split second to think that this was it, that this would be their cold, remote resting place, and then gun-fire sent them all into cover. Jemma gave him a wild glance behind their rock as the echo of the blast died in the air.

The relief he felt when the door slid open at his ventured introduction was immense, second only to the relief he felt when Jemma took his hand again as they followed Koenig down the halls.

Now she sat on the edge of the counter in their bathroom as he changed her bandages, and when he looked up he found she was regarding him speculatively. 

“By all rights we should be freezing to death right about now,” she said matter-of-factly. 

“I’m glad we’re not.” 

She looked even smaller than she was in the clothes they had found in storage. Black t-shirts, gray sweatpants and sweatshirts, socks that swamped even his feet. Not much in the way of variety, either in style or size. 

“I didn’t talk, when Hand tried to convince me you were the Clairvoyant.” She quirked the slightest of smiles. “Even with- even with everything, I couldn’t be convinced of that.”

“Thank you.” Her wrists neatly re-bandaged, he let his hands rest lightly on her knees. “I rushed this, Jemma. I rushed us.”

She raised a brow at that, looking faintly amused. “I kissed you. I snuck into your bed. I made it perfectly clear that I was yours for the taking, and it still took months.”

“And I let you think that I was being honest with you. And I was, about some things.”

“Like what?” she asked softly. 

“That I love you.” Her breath caught slightly at that, and he took it as a good sign. “Preschoolers know more than I do about how to share a secret, and my mother would smack me if she knew that I had left you in doubt, but I do love you, Jemma.”

She ducked her head, looking down at her lap and his hands. “I thought about asking for another room.”

“You can have this one.”

She shook her head, sighing. “That wasn’t a hint.”

He waited for her to gather her thoughts, determined not to interrupt her again. 

“I’m ready to go to bed.” She placed one hand lightly on one of his. “And I sleep better when I’m warm, so I would like it if you stayed with me.”

He nodded when she looked up, waiting for his response. 

“But I really sleep better with you,” she continued in a whisper. “So please hold me.”

“I can do that.”

He could almost see the moment when her composure slipped, and the way her breathing stuttered into a rough pattern made it clear. “I think this might be shock,” she said in a dazed tone, tears sliding down her cheeks to patter against her sweatshirt. “I feel so odd.”

She clung to him when he picked her up and carried her to bed, a faint whimper emitting from the back of her throat. “Talk to me?” she asked as he settled her into his lap, and one of her hands clasped his bicep, half-covering her words. “Please.”

“It was September fifth,” he said after a moment of thought. “The day you were born. Quite a surprise, Jemma, let me tell you.” He leaned back against the pillows, guiding her head to lay against his chest. “And maybe this was weird, but I always did a little something for you after that. I would go out and buy something sweet. Cake, usually, and it was always too big for one person, so I would be eating it for breakfast for a week.”

He neglected to mention the dark years, the years when cases ended badly or when the wait seemed interminable. Alcohol was his treat of choice, then- scotch, or whiskey, or bourbon, and in plenty. He was keeping secrets again, he knew, but he didn’t think those particular memories would be helpful at that moment.

“You should think about what your favorite dessert is. I’ll find a good recipe.” He pulled up the blanket around them both. “I make a great apple pie.”

“In honor of Steve Rogers?” she asked quietly, her breath warm against his neck. 

He laughed slightly. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. She was one of his chorus girls in the national tour.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“No, I just made an idiot of myself, wearing my heart on my sleeve.” Talking about his trading cards, which he never had gotten back. “He was very gracious.”

He continued telling her light, pleasant stories about his early life. All true things, if slightly edited for the moment. Gradually he shifted them so that they were both completely under the covers, him lying on his back so that she could curl up against his side. 

“I don’t know how to act,” she said in a lull. “What do ghosts do, I wonder?”

It was safer, not technically existing. They could slip through the cracks and dump the red tape in one swift move, but for some of them their losses would be greater than their gains. “We keep on going as we were,” he replied, and then reconsidered the statement. “As agents, I mean. You and I-”

“I know.” She sounded calmer, and she took his hand under the blankets and pulled it toward herself, laying it over her marked shoulder. “Still a matched pair,” she said quietly. “That can’t be erased.”

“Would you like another story?” He allowed himself a brief nuzzle against her hair, smelling the faint chemical odor of whatever generic shampoo and conditioner had been in the shower. “I could tell you about my childhood dog.”

“Tomorrow.” She wriggled closer, her sigh more sleepy than troubled. “Tell me tomorrow?”

Still a matched pair. Maybe a little damaged, and definitely shaken up, but soulbonds couldn’t be severed. “I love you.”

For a moment he thought that she had fallen asleep, or that she was choosing to simply not speak, but then her reply came, faint and muffled. “I love you, too.”


	4. the late night side of morning

Things looked better in the morning, as they often did. Jemma had been a bit lacking in that kind of sunny outlook for the past few weeks, but something about the cozy bed and the man still sleeping beside her brought a little of it back. 

Perhaps her shock had been an actual shock to her system, she thought sleepily. Like jump-starting a car engine. 

Phil had left off his sweatshirt the night before, and his marked arm lay inches from her face. Even in her current state she liked the sight of her handwriting on his skin, and there had certainly been a time when she had very much appreciated the play of his muscle under her words. Just watching him pull off a shirt had been enough incentive for her to tug him into bed and put those muscles to good use.

She was looking forward to when they reached that point again. Sex with Phil was fun.

Reaching out, she placed a finger gently on the small dot of the ‘i’, so gently he didn’t even stir. The science behind soulbonds was so complex, so unknowable that belief in a higher power was almost a requirement to live. One moment he had been unmarked, and then she had slid into the light and cursive had bloomed on his skin. A sudden, and definite, claiming.

His mark had been clear on her skin from the instant of birth. She had seen it in her baby pictures, the writing cramped and small, waiting for growth. 

He rolled onto his side, his eyelids half-open and drooping with fatigue. “I didn’t dream the past few days, by any chance?”

It had been a long time since she had grinned, and the stretch of muscle felt almost odd. “I’m afraid not. Hydra, Talbot, et cetera.”

“How disappointing.” He was still watching her with a drowsy gaze, and there was something of the old Phil, there- the one who used to wake her up with his mouth moving lazily along her collarbone. 

Instinctively she reached out a hand into the space between them, and after a second he covered it with one of his. “So today you get a lanyard,” he murmured, his fingers stroking hers lightly. 

He had received his the day before. “It doesn’t have quite the same gravitas as the official SHIELD badges,” she replied. 

“No.” 

She expected him to get up after a few seconds more, but instead he adjusted the pillow under his head and kept his hold on her hand. “How do you feel?”

“Purged.” She shrugged slightly against the sheets. “Not the best word, perhaps, but the closest I can come. It’s almost as if I’ve been hollowed out.”

He moved slightly closer, no more than an inch or so. “Anything I can do?”

“Don’t you have work to attend to?”

She still wasn’t quite used to the new level of attention he was paying her, these days. Such focus was as unnerving as it was delightful. 

“I always have something I should be doing,” he admitted. “But right now I’m with you.” He slipped his hand to her wrist, placing his fingers against the bandage. “Are you in pain?”

“Some.” The damage would have been much, much worse if he hadn’t appeared when he did. What little slack there had been on the chains had disappeared once she had scrambled under the table, and an hour of having her hands pinned above her head had been slow torture. “I thought it was Hydra, setting off those explosives. I was preparing myself for an enemy to step into the room.”

And that had been after the shock of ceiling tiles falling, and the way the blast had slammed her into the table hard enough to seriously wind her. She hadn’t bothered to say anything about it the day before, when the urge to move and hide had overwhelmed everything else, but she certainly felt battered now. “Will you check my ribs?” she asked after a moment of indecision. “I think they’re just bruised, but…”

He had sat up the second the question had left her mouth, and blushing slightly she pulled up her over-sized sweatshirt and t-shirt. Glancing down she could see dark bruises in an almost straight line just under her breasts, and she sucked in a breath at the pain as he carefully examined her, a frown on his face. 

“Bruised,” he concurred, looking no less worried. “You won’t be moving very easily for a few days, I think.”

He circumspectly pulled the hem of her t-shirt down, his hands lingering briefly on her waist before he sat back. “I could get you an ice-pack, maybe breakfast in bed before I go and see what else had gone to hell in the past few hours,” he offered. “What sounds good? An omelet? Pancakes?”

“Pancakes.” She sat up with a grimace. “I’ll come with you and help. We should make enough for everyone.” She gave him a small smile. “It’s good for morale, don’t you think?”

The others seemed to think that being served pancakes by their superior officer mere days after their entire organization had fallen apart was just weird, but Jemma merely worked her way through her food with as much pleasure as she could dredge up. She might have lost her life, so to speak (along with her degrees, dammit), but now that her head was clearer she was determined to count her blessings. She still had her friends, there was probably a perfectly adequate lab somewhere on the premises, and she still had Phil. He was trying so very hard with her, and just the fact that he was putting in the effort made her feel on a more even keel. 

He followed her to orientation (quite an innocent word for that lie detector contraption), and despite Koenig’s protests refused to leave the room when it was her turn. He waited, leaning back against the wall, as she answered the increasingly odd questions thrown at her. 

“Why are you here?” Koenig asked her at last, his tone indicating that this was his final question. 

She turned her head slightly to meet Phil’s eyes. “Because I trust him,” she said quietly. “I would follow Phil anywhere.”

And it was true. His secretive nature aside, she believed whole-heartedly that he would never knowingly lead her into danger. 

He hid his pleasure at her statement well, and it wasn’t until they were in his office that he pulled her toward him, catching her in a gentle kiss.

“I’ve missed that,” she murmured once they separated. 

“So have I.” He placed the fingertips of one hand lightly against the _What are_ that peeked out from under her shirt, and she experienced a sudden vivid flash of memory of his tongue hot and rough against the same spot. 

She was leaning in for a second kiss when a knock sounded on the door, and she pulled away, disappointed. “I had better check on Fitz,” she said with a small sigh, reaching out to straighten his tie. “Will you take some time to have lunch with me?”

“Gladly.”

Ward gave her an unreadable look as she passed him, and she had not gone far before the door to Phil’s office closed with an audible click.

\- - - 

Ward’s report of the fall of the Fridge was not only as bad as Phil had feared, but worse. There was no possible way that Daniels was heading anywhere other than Portland. The bond between Audrey and that man was strong, and twisted beyond repair. 

That had been, at least in part, the reason why Phil had allowed his connection with Audrey to grow deeper than he ever had with any other woman. He had been depressed himself, at the time, seemingly without cause. One lonely, sad man, one beautiful and haunted woman- a sure mix for tragedy, which he had known even then. Her presence had at least cut down on his alcohol intake.

Daniels wasn’t the only prisoner who would need to be tracked down, but in Phil’s estimation he was the most dangerous.

He went and found Jemma early, an hour before she might have reasonably expected him for lunch, but she immediately set aside her notes and followed him from the lab. She was moving stiffly, and he slowed his pace to make it easier for her to keep up. 

She didn’t seem surprised when they ended up back in his office, and he handed her the file he had compiled on Daniels before he could reconsider his actions. “This isn’t how I wanted to tell you about Audrey, but I’m constrained by time.”

Jemma flicked her gaze up at him briefly before opening the file. “I’m not surprised that you had previous relationships,” she said, her voice calm. “Even serious ones.”

“She was the only serious one.” He had even briefly considered proposing to her, and only the neat cursive on his arm had dissuaded him. “You know- you’ve heard, I’m sure, about soulbonds gone wrong.”

“More myth than fact,” she replied, her gaze narrowing speculatively. “Medea and Jason, Romeo and Juliet.”

“Daniels was wrong before he even met Audrey. His talents warped him.” 

“She was terrified,” Jemma guessed, flipping a page in the file and coming face to face with a shot of Audrey. “She’s very pretty. A musician?”

“Cellist.” 

“I never could span an octave,” Jemma said quietly with a wry smile. “Are we sending a team?”

The words hung in the air for a long moment, and her smile turned self-deprecating. “Silly me,” she said. “We are the team.” She continued before he could get a word in edge-wise. “You’ll want to speak to Fitz about this technology. I’m sure he would have any number of ideas.”

“I’m sure he would.” She was turning so very, very professional in front of him, and he stepped forward to lay a hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps I could send Ward with the others?”

Her expression turned startled. “Stay here with me, you mean?”

“Yes.”

She looked torn. “You know Daniels best,” she said finally. “I think you need to be on the ground for this one, Phil.”

He couldn’t deny that fact. “You can stay here, if you prefer.”

“I want to come,” she admitted hesitantly. “Maybe that sounds bad, as if I don’t trust you, but I don’t want to stay behind.”

“I really don’t want to leave you.” 

She made the move to come closer before he could make up his mind. “Though I admit that I am tempted to write ‘property of Jemma Simmons’ somewhere on your body.” 

Jemma still held the file between them, but she did stretch to bridge the height difference, kissing him with what felt like intent. He rested his hands on her waist, resisting the urge to pull her closer. 

“I think there is a sharpie around here somewhere,” he offered afterward, his hands still cupping the initial flare of her hips. “You could probably fit that much on my forehead.”

She laughed at that, shaking her head. “No, no, that won’t do at all. No need to be obvious.”

“I’ll be staying behind the scenes.” She still hadn’t moved away, which he thought was a good sign. “She’ll never see me. You can stay with me, if you like. She would be fine with Fitz.”

Jemma shook her head, looking regretful. “We can play that part by ear, but she might be more comfortable with a woman. I would.” A glimmer of a smile appeared. “Someone a bit more approachable than May.”

“Only if _you_ are comfortable with it.” 

“I might have to be.” An expression of concern settled onto her face, and she lifted one hand to his chest. “I don’t mean to be jealous, really,” she said. “Of course you cared about her- you still do, I’m sure, and that’s fine. I was more or less foisted on you, after all.”

“You are anything but an imposition.” The words came out fiercer than he had intended, but she barely blinked at his tone. “You’re a gift, Jemma.”

Fate might not have been fair to her, but it had been overly generous to him. After a moment she placed the file on a nearby table and closed the gap between them. “And you’re my gift,” she said solemnly, one hand stroking his back underneath his jacket. “We’ve both made mistakes, and it’s time we stopped dwelling on them. Full amnesty, Phil.”

“I’m not sure I deserve that,” he told her honestly.

“Too bad. You’re being forgiven anyway, and now we move on.” The hand that had rested on his chest tapped meaningfully on his shoulder, the same side on which his mark lay on her. “Partners?”

Agency hierarchy was in shambles. What use was there in trying to maintain it? “Partners.” He grinned, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. “I guess we’re a democracy, now, after all.”

“Hardly.” Her hand slid up and around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. He had missed kissing Jemma, missed how easily she fit against him. He had been right, that first day- her mouth was lovely, especially against his. 

“I suppose I should go and search my wardrobe for some very high-necked blouses,” she said as she straightened the rumpled hem of her sweater. “She would recognize your handwriting, I’m sure.”

“Probably.” He wanted to muss her up a bit more, but now was hardly the time. “If you change your mind, that’s not a problem.”

“Thank you, Phil.” She hesitated in the doorway, giving him a long look. Her bandages peeked out from beneath the cuffs of her sweater, and the way she held herself clearly indicated how physically uncomfortable she was. He hadn’t considered that danger, either, when he had first heard her issue her warning. He had always had enemies, but now there were even more people who would find her a useful bartering piece. “I knew you would come,” she said finally, and pressed a hand to her chest. “It sounds so foolish, but I felt it, here.”

“I’m always going to come for you, you know.” 

“I know.”

\- - -

Jemma wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but Audrey turned out to be exactly the kind of woman that Jemma thought would fit Phil: intelligent, compassionate, and quite beautiful. A bit soft-spoken, but Jemma could hear the hint of steel in her voice, and she thought it was likely that under better circumstances Audrey was witty and bold with her opinions. They had laughed a great deal, Jemma found herself thinking. She was more of an age to Phil, and they probably had many things in common. 

“He was a very gentle man, to me,” Audrey said with a soft smile. They had somehow gotten onto the subject of Phil, and Jemma held her tongue as she sat with the other woman, unnerved but also fascinated by Audrey’s reminiscing. “With such a sense of humor. He told these terrible jokes, but I couldn’t help laughing.”

Audrey tugged the overlong sleeve of her sweater further down, obviously trying to cover the crabbed writing that started in her palm and spilled down her arm. “We were planning a trip down the coast.” She shrugged, her smile sad. “We weren’t bonded, of course. Someone was out there waiting for him. I know they hadn’t met the last time I saw him… but they must have met before he died.”

They hadn’t, of course, but Jemma nodded seriously in return. “Was it difficult?” she asked suddenly, unable to help herself. “I know… well, SHIELD agents.” She shrugged jerkily, sure she sounded like quite the idiot. “We can be very insular.”

Surprisingly, Audrey smiled. “He told me what truth he could, and I was happy with that.”

Jemma did her best to stay composed, but inside she felt stricken. “You must have loved him very much.”

“We might as well have been marked for each other.” 

Audrey turned away, then, as Fitz asked her some question that he had almost certainly pulled out of thin air once he caught a glimpse of Jemma’s mental state. Jemma stood and made her way to the bathroom, waiting until she was securely behind a locked door before releasing the sob that had been trapped in her throat. She hadn’t been wrong to demand honesty from Phil- she hadn’t, and logically she knew that- but Audrey was so sweet, and so nice, and she had obviously made Phil’s life so _easy_ and pleasant, and here Jemma was mucking it up.

 _I deserve honesty_ , she reminded herself as she splashed cold water on her face. _Honesty, respect, and love._

 _And orgasms,_ she thought, staring at herself in the mirror. “Those, too.” 

She waited as long as she could before leaving the bathroom, or as long as was feasible with incurring suspicion. Audrey smiled up at her as she re-entered the room. “What spice mix was that on the chicken?” she asked Jemma. “I’d like to replicate it, someday. Would you write it down for me?”

“Of course.” It had been a blend her mother had devised, and Jemma, who had been in need of some comfort when faced with her soulmate’s former lover and a strange kitchen, had automatically pulled it together. “I’ll do that right now.”

\- - -

The safehouse Phil had found for them had two small bedrooms and a couch, and Fitz had gallantly opted for the small, cramped sofa. That left Jemma and Audrey in their own rooms, and Jemma spent several sleepless hours staring up at the ceiling, wishing that she wasn’t alone in the small bed. 

The bed dipped beside her after she had finally slipped into a doze, and her first thought was of Phil. 

Then a cool hand dropped on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” Audrey said, and her words didn’t make any sense. 

Jemma fruitlessly tried to pick out her features in the dark. “Pardon?”

“That you lost Phil so soon after meeting him.”

She sat up quickly, dislodging Audrey’s hand. “How-”

“Your handwriting.” The other woman shrugged, the move almost imperceptible in the dark. “I recognized it.”

This was not a scenario that Jemma had foreseen. That Audrey would recognize Phil’s handwriting, yes. The idea that Audrey could pick out Jemma’s handwriting based on familiarity with only one sentence, though- that was a surprise. 

“I saw him only a few weeks before he died, and spoke with him on the phone three days before his death. I would have guessed by his tone, if he had met you between those two times.”

Jemma cast about wildly for an explanation, finally stuttering out a hesitant, “The last day.”

“The day he died.”

“Yes.” She strove to calm her voice, but could do nothing to slow the wild cadence of her heart. “We were stationed in the same location.”

Audrey considered this in silence. “He was a wonderful man,” she said finally, not letting her go. “Did you know about us?”

“Yes.”

“You are either very kind, or your supervisors are very cruel,” Audrey said in a musing tone. “I don’t want to know which.”

In the space of what seemed liked seconds she was gone, leaving Jemma to an empty room, her heart hammering in her chest. The small device that relayed everything on their end was still in her ear, and she knew that Phil had heard every word- or would hear every word, eventually. 

\- - -

May’s expression when Phil woke to take the next shift was grim. “She knows.”

At first Phil thought that Audrey knew he was still alive, but then May pressed play on a previously synced piece of recording, and the brief conversation sent him dropping into the nearest chair. Of course Audrey had recognized Jemma’s handwriting. He had been foolish to not even consider that possibility. “We have to pull Jemma out,” he said, his mouth dry. “She can’t sustain that kind of fabrication for very long.”

He loved Jemma like he loved his own limbs, but she was hardly a first-class liar, especially when emotions ran high. 

“That would look very suspicious,” May said dryly. “Simmons did very well, all things considered. It isn’t an odd story, really- one of those tragedies that happens every once in a while. If she acts oddly after this, Audrey will just think that she’s shaken up.”

It wasn’t just Audrey’s realization that had Phil’s world spinning; it was that on top of the entire conversation the previous evening. Audrey hadn’t minded his secrecy because Daniels had spent so long foisting every thought of his own on her, even as he had pried out every single one of her secrets. They had worked because she didn’t want to know everything Phil had been thinking. She had wanted gentleness and respect, two things Phil had been only too happy to give her. 

That Jemma wasn’t happy with the same set-up was understandable, but he could only imagine that hearing Audrey’s words had been a struggle all their own. 

“We have to end this, soon,” he said, his voice making it clear that he would accept no compromise in this.

May regarded him coolly. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “Obviously.”

\- - - 

Audrey was very careful around her, after that. Considerate, even, as if Jemma was the one who had been dealt a blow. 

That all changed when Daniels struck outside of their planned ambush, and Jemma and Audrey were the ones sent sprinting away from the others, Jemma’s shirt audibly tearing as Daniels caught and lost his grip on her collar. 

“They’ll be here soon,” Jemma gasped out quietly when they found a safe(ish) bolthole. Her hand gripped the butt of her ICER; a futile weapon against someone like Daniels. “They heard everything through my earpiece.”

Audrey nodded, slumping against the wall as she panted. “You should go.”

“That is a terrible idea,” Jemma protested in a hiss. “I’m not leaving you for _him_.”

“I don’t think he’ll hurt me.” Audrey smiled sadly and reached out, her hand landing unexpectedly on Jemma’s shoulder- on skin. “Maybe the bond won’t let him.”

There were a number of case studies that disproved just such a notion, but Jemma didn’t get a chance to cite any of them. Audrey’s gaze sharpened, and then she surged forward, pinning Jemma against the opposite wall by the shoulder.

“The words are _black_ ,” she said, sounding utterly betrayed. “If he was dead they would be gray. They’re black. _They’re black_.”

Jemma opened her mouth to reply, though what she intended to say, she had no clue.

“Did he fake his death, rather than tell me?” Audrey asked, her voice loud and her cheeks now streaked with tears. “He wouldn’t do that to me, Jemma. Why is your mark black?”

“Because he’s still alive.”

Jemma was momentarily confounded, because that was not her voice, not at all. They both turned their heads to see Daniels, who loomed in the exit with a pleased smile on his face. “Sainted Agent Coulson, still alive and kicking,” he continued, and looked Jemma up and down. “She looks a bit like you, dear,” he told Audrey, who still had Jemma pinned against the wall. “Perhaps dainty brunettes are his thing.”

Audrey did not look strong, but either appearances were deceiving or a surge of adrenaline had given her added strength, because Jemma’s collarbone ached at the pressure. “He was under orders,” she whispered frantically to Audrey, who barely acknowledged her words. “He didn’t want to, I swear, _I swear_.”

“He left me alone.”

That Audrey was dazed and under an immense amount of pressure was clear. That Daniels was pleased by this turn of events was even clearer.

“We could let his mark go gray,” he whispered, his words insidious and charming in some strange, strange way. “We could leave him alone.”

“I couldn’t do that to him,” Audrey whispered back, her expression desperate.

“He did it to you.”

Faster than Jemma might have believed Daniels whipped out a hand, securing it around her throat. “Let go, bondmate,” he said, his tone almost ceremonial. “I will never leave you alone.”

Audrey looked so very, very tempted.

The light that flooded their small alley nook was so bright that it surpassed Jemma’s comprehension of what light could be. Even when she instinctively squeezed her eyelids shut after the initial second it beat against the thin layers of skin, and some small, calculating part of her pointed out that the only reason she wasn’t screaming was because Daniels had kept his grip on her throat, cutting off a valuable portion of her air supply. 

At some point the pressure eased and Jemma was lifted into the air, but even barely clinging to consciousness she didn’t open her eyes. 

“It’s okay,” someone murmured desperately into her ear, strong arms keeping her close. “I’m still here.”

\- - -

Daniels literally dissolved into ash, though they didn’t realize it at the time. It was only the fine layer of black and gray dust that covered Jemma and Audrey and the conspicuous lack of Daniels that clued them in, after the light had dimmed, and even then that was secondary for Phil. The bruising around Jemma’s neck took precedence, and the way May immediately dropped to her knees beside Audrey dispelled any guilt he might have felt about leaving her behind. 

Jemma curled in reflexively once in his arms, pressing her face against his shoulder. Fitz hurried after him toward one of the SUVs, training the beam of a flashlight on Jemma’s neck once Phil put her down. She was gasping for breath, her eyelids squeezed shut, and the way she was slumped against the seat left no doubt that she was on the verge of potentially passing out. 

Phil had to force himself to focus as he examined her neck, making as dispassionate a diagnosis as possible even as his heart-rate picked up speed. Bruised, he thought, but obviously breathing, and he didn’t think that she had been deprived of oxygen long enough for it to have been a problem. Fitz was muttering something about the light and her eyes beside him, sounding frantic, but the best they could do was wrap a length of bandaging over her eyes to keep her in the dark.

“Didn’t mean to hurt her,” she murmured as Phil pulled the seatbelt around her body before taking the seat next to her. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, sweetheart.” He cupped her face gently between his hands, frowning as he examined the developing bruises around her throat. “You couldn’t have foreseen this. She’ll be fine.”

They stayed at another safehouse, that night, and she kept her hands in his as he led her carefully through their small room, making sure she knew exactly where the bathroom was, and how many steps there were from wall to bed from each angle. 

“Let me tell you a story,” he said as she settled against his side, curling an arm around her. “Would you like a story?”

She brought up a hand to curl it around his shoulder, her fingers creeping hesitantly up his arm until she found the right spot. “She loved you very much.”

“I didn’t mean for it to be serious.”

“Sometimes we can’t be careful.” 

“What do you need?” He had helped her wash her hair in the shower, and the strands were still damp against his neck. “Whatever you want, Jemma.”

“It’s not that, Phil.” She let out a long breath. “Do you miss it? How easy it was, with her?”

Phil couldn’t honestly say that it had been easy, with Audrey. Eventually she would have wanted more from him, and they had just never reached that point. “No, I don’t.” He pulled her a bit closer, very conscious of the fact that he had nearly lost her just a handful of hours before. “I’d rather work at this with you than cruise with anyone else. Cruising is so boring, Jemma- so shallow.”

“I don’t mean to be difficult.”

“You are _not_ difficult.” Her hoarse little voice was killing him, just a bit. “I’m the difficult bastard. Don’t forget that.”

“Yes, but you’re my difficult bastard.” She sounded strangely amused by the term. “I wouldn’t trust just anyone to help me like this, you know.”

She curled closer, wrapping an arm around his chest. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Phil figured that the odds of him actually sleeping that night approached zero, and he was right.

\- - -

Jemma had graduated to a pair of darkly tinted sunglasses by the time they were ready to return to Providence, and considered herself very lucky to have reached that point at all. “My little miracle,” she had joked in a strained whisper, and Phil had given her a pained look, his feelings of guilt evident. 

“Going to have to put you under lock and key,” Fitz teased her as they boarded the small plane. “You just keep stumbling into trouble.”

Judging by the expression on Phil’s face, he was seriously considering the idea. 

He was so very quiet as they made their way back to the base, his attention fixed on the reports on the tablet he carried. He kept one hand clasped around one of hers, idly stroking her palm with his thumb. 

Audrey had sustained less damage than Jemma. The light had been coming from behind her, and after a few hours of persistent spots her vision had been nearly normal. She had not asked to speak with Jemma, and had not asked after Phil, but when May had gone to her apartment for a final check it had been empty. Just dust and furniture waited in the shadows, and the last charges on her various credit and debit cards had been from before Daniels’ arrival into town.

Jemma suspected that Phil had given Audrey lessons in the art of disappearing at some point in the past, and that the other woman was finally putting that knowledge into play. Phil had just nodded at the news, obviously too weary to do more than accept and move on.

He finally put his tablet to the side when Fitz left that area of the plane, turning toward her in his seat. “How are you feeling?”

“Much the same.” She was looking forward to being back in their cozy little room on base, where she could turn off the lights and put aside the sunglasses that were pinching the bridge of her nose. “Any news from the Hub?”

“Scattered reports. I wish I could promise you some quiet days, but…”

Quiet days were obviously a thing of the past, and she silently mourned that fact. “No need to fret,” she said instead, leaning against his shoulder. “I’m surprising myself with my own resilience, these days.”

He released her hand, only to slide the same arm around her shoulders. “You leave me in awe.”

It would creep back up on her, eventually. The strain, the panic- the multitude of reverberations bouncing back at her from any one of their most recent trials. She would have to keep a careful eye on Phil, as well. The man always was one to scant himself on sleep in stressful situations, and she could tell that he was feeling the weight of the entire organization falling onto his shoulders. 

“Tonight, you and me and some jazz, hmm?” she asked in a murmur. “No dancing, because I would just trip all over you, right now, but maybe you could take an hour to cuddle with me in the dark.”

“That sounds amazing.” He sighed heavily, letting his head tip back against his seat. “It’s a date, Jemma.”


	5. lift me, won't you lift me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said I was sticking close to canon I was lying through my teeth.

This had definitely been one of Jemma’s better ideas, at least in recent memory. She still felt battered and bruised, but not so much so that draping herself lazily over Phil’s chest was out of the question. He didn’t seem to mind being pinned down; he was stroking her hair in the dark and humming absently along with whatever slow piece was currently playing. 

“I do have to get up, eventually,” he said at one point, and laughed when her only response was to nuzzle her nose against his neck. “Jemma, Hydra won’t be taking the night off.”

“You nearly didn’t.” He hadn’t managed to leave his desk until after eleven pm, and if she had her way he wouldn’t be leaving the bed until at least eight hours had passed. “And you look so tired, dear.” She cuddled closer, toying with the hem of his t-shirt. “Turn off the music and stay here with me.”

“I don’t recall seeing anything about being a temptress in your official dossier.” 

She liked the way his chest rumbled under her ear as he spoke. He wasn’t a big man, not really- he had nothing on Ward or Trip- but he was certainly large and strong enough to make her feel protected and safe, and some cynical part of her wondered if just that realization meant she needed to trade in her feminist card. 

Then again, the body wanted what the body wanted, and her body definitely appreciated the fact that he was roughly (sort of, not really) her height and heavier.

“It’s a skill I’ve been forced to develop.” The slow, bluesy jazz and his hands stroking down her back should have sent her edging into sleep, but it was only reinforcing her desire for step two. “You bring it out in me.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then one hand left her back. The brief flare of light from the tablet as he turned off the music made her squeeze her eyelids shut, and he murmured an apology.

“Sleep is very important, I suppose,” he conceded, wrapping his arms around her back. “Especially with such charming company.”

Grinning, she slipped her hand under his shirt, stroking her fingers across his skin. “I can be charming, on the occasion.”

He was quivering slightly under her touch, which pleased her a great deal. It had been over a month since they had last had sex, and at times she had wondered if it had bothered him as much as it had bothered her- and now, evidence. “I’ve missed you.” She spoke the words honestly, not so much as a seductive tactic as an attempt to express how incomplete she had felt without him. There wasn’t anything in the science of soulbonds to support the idea that some kind of physical connection was required to keep the bond strong, but she had been feeling very needy recently.

Then again, she might just be horny, and that was okay, too.

His hands moved down to her hips when she shifted her weight off of him. “Not leaving, I hope?” he asked, sounding a little desperate. 

“No, just undressing. Do you mind doing this in the dark?”

Judging by the way the mattress dipped slightly as he sat up and the sound of cloth sliding up and dropping onto the floor, not so much. “You’re covered in bruises.”

“Only in a few spots. Just don’t grab onto my ribs or shoulders and we should be fine.” And her neck, but that was a given. 

“You should probably be on top, then.”

His hands landed gently on her waist, moving softly upward to brush against her breasts. “I really hope Hydra does take the night off,” he muttered, gathering her in when she moved closer. “I’m not going to be happy if we’re interrupted.”

“Nor will I.” She pressed closer when he continued to keep his touch light. “I want you to promise me that once I’m healed you’ll toss me onto the bed and ravish me.”

“A dangerous promise, but yes, yes, I can definitely do that.”

“I might even let you throw me over your shoulder first.”

She could be mistaken, but the way his mouth felt against her jaw made her think that his grin had turned distinctly wicked. “Only if no one is watching.”

\- - -

The morning theme on their fake window was of the famed nude beach, which was a disconcerting sight at any time of the day. In any case, the sight of Jemma naked and tangled in the sheets was much more interesting than the photograph Koenig had slipped into the queue. 

She groaned after a moment, squirming until her head was under a pillow. “Early.”

Not a morning person, his Jemma. He picked up her sunglasses and nudged them gently under her hand for when she was ready to actually face the day. “Just after six am.”

She was sprawled on her stomach, an edge of the bruising on her ribs just peeking out from under the sheets. “You are disgustingly chipper.”

“My bondmate is safe and we had a wonderful romantic night together.” He dragged one finger lightly down her spine, aware his smile was probably verging on foolish. “I’m in a good mood.”

“Tickles,” she protested lightly with a yawn, stretching just enough to tug the sheets down another inch on her hips. “Since we’re still alive, I’m assuming Hydra didn’t invade.”

“Odds are pretty good on that score, I think.”

The sunglasses disappeared under the pillow, and after a few seconds she rolled over, pushing it to the side. “Is that a nude beach?” she asked with a frown, blinking at the screen in confusion.

From this angle she looked much more battered, and he instinctively reached out to pull the sheets up around her. “I think Koenig has been very, very lonely.”

“I should think so.”

She followed him into the shower, looking distinctly grumpy when the lenses of her glasses were inevitably spotted and fogged by the water. “Will you be leaving soon?”

He gave her a sharp glance, unsure of her hesitant tone. “No. Why?”

The instant relieved cast to her expression settled him. “I wasn’t sure if you would be leading the team against the other escapees or not.” She shrugged, looking a trifle embarrassed. “Obviously I’m on the sidelines, at least for the moment.”

“Eventually I might have to.” A necessary evil, more like, given how few people they had. “But I’m planning to send Ward out with the others for the next one or two. Maybe by the time they finish Skye will have finally tracked down that footage from the Fridge.” 

Maybe her eyes would be closer to healed, maybe her bruises would have faded, maybe he would be able to leave without carrying the image of Daniels with his hand clasped around her throat around in his mind. He still wasn’t sure what decision Audrey might have made, pushed to the breaking point as she had been. If they had dallied a few seconds more, Jemma might have been left in a lifeless heap in that alley, his words the ash-gray that Daniels had threatened. 

He was staring at her, and she eventually began to stare back, her mouth curved slightly upward in a smile. “You look rather flummoxed, Phil.”

The way her accent wrapped around words was enchanting. “I just never realized a bond could be like this.” He almost reached out to lay a hand on her mark, but the faint bruise on the skin there dissuaded him. “I used to think the stories were complete bullshit, but-”

She began to giggle as she ducked under the spray to rinse off her hair. “But now you want to sing duets, is that it?”

“Not exactly.” Take her back to bed, yes. Run off and secretly set up house in some corner of Wales, probably. “I don’t know what I would do, if my mark went gray.” He particularly didn’t want to know if the myths about feeling that lack of a bond were in any way true. 

“Well, it won’t anytime soon.” She pushed back a strand of wet hair from her face and continued in a very practical tone. “And really, if anyone’s mark will go gray first it will probably be mine.”

If he kept getting stabbed, most likely. “Selfish as it sounds, I hope you’re right.”

“That is selfish.” She accepted the towel he handed her after turning off the water and immediately wrapped it around her hair, stepping out of the shower naked and gleaming. “When that happens, some forty or so years in the future, I’m going to complain about it at your funeral.”

“But first you’re going to taunt me by walking around naked?”

“Is it working?” she asked, looking far too delighted. “You’ll just have to let the memory keep you warm all day, as you do your best to save the world.”

So many years of training had not been for naught; he had a towel wrapped around her in seconds, pinning her arms to her sides and pulling her up against him. She grinned up at him, not at all disconcerted by his actions. “Going to help me dry off, are you?”

He could think of a half a dozen graphic and earthy ripostes to her question. At any other time he would have picked one in order to see her blush and giggle in response, but he was in too earnest a mood to banter. “Is the base warm enough?” he asked instead, and her amusement abated as she took in his expression. He loosened his grip on the towel enough to wrap it fully around her, rubbing the thick terry cloth against her skin until she was dry. “It can get a bit drafty in here, don’t you think?”

“You can’t always protect me, Phil,” was her soft response. He stopped, wrapping his arms around her to keep her close. “I might not be an operative, but I’m just as much an agent as you are.”

“I know you are.” She had certainly proven her bravery and loyalty a hundred times over since they had met. “I just don’t want to be one of those stories, Jemma- the ones where it all ends a year or five years after the initial meeting.”

“I don’t want that to happen, either.” One eyebrow lifted, curving above the rim of her glasses. “You might keep that in mind, in the field. It would be nice to live long enough to maybe worry about a mortgage, one day.”

He had backed her up against the counter at some point early in their conversation, and she squirmed backwards at this, perching on the edge. “But for now, we have time, and I am a bit cold,” she said cheerfully, her legs hooking behind his, pulling him forward. “This counter is dreadfully uncomfortable, but we should shag anyway.”

“Not with as many bruises as you have,” he grumbled, picking her up so suddenly she gasped, wrapping herself tightly around him. He could take an extra half an hour or so, surely. It was barely six-thirty, and evil probably slept in. 

Jemma had gotten over her shock by the time he placed her on the edge of the bed and was back to smiling. “How much are you lifting these days?” she asked, her legs still wrapped around his waist. She was running her hands down his arms, her gaze both assessing and appreciative. “More than I weigh, obviously.”

“Well, that is what my exercise goals are built around,” he teased, easing her back a few inches so that he could get a hand between them. “Making sure that I can lift you in any and all situations. Wouldn’t want to get out of breath carrying you to safety- or to bed.”

“That would be unfortunate,” she said, the color rising in her cheeks as his fingers continued to work. After a moment she tipped her head back with a slight, frustrated whine, and the towel wrapped around her hair lost its fight with gravity. “Phil, could you- _please_.”

“Why rush this?” He bent forward to kiss her shoulder, right over his words. “Just relax.”

“That was a joke, right?” She was glaring at him, though it was a bit difficult to tell through the dark lenses. “This isn’t very relaxing.”

He would never say so aloud, but being scolded by Jemma was not too dissimilar to being taken to task by a very self-possessed rabbit. The way she was quivering under his ministrations wasn’t helping. “That’s more the end goal.”

She didn’t bother actually saying anything in response. The way she pulled his towel free and took him in hand said more than words could, and her satisfied smirk at their sudden stalemate was a sight to behold. 

“Come on, jazz man,” she said coaxingly, twisting her hand slightly. “Mustn’t let Hydra be the early bird, not today.”

Nope, not a bunny. More lioness, with those curves and that sweet, sharp-toothed smile. “My lioness,” he murmured as he pushed her back further on the bed and crawled on top of her, ignoring her questioning look. “As you wish, sweetheart.”

\- - -

Jemma exchanged her sunglasses for safety goggles a week later with a sigh of relief, and life temporarily proceeded as normal- or as normal as life could be, post-Hydra. The rest of the team, Skye included, had been off the base for the majority of that time as they tracked down several escapees, and Phil had had his hands full supervising them from Providence as he simultaneously tried to track down other remaining pockets of SHIELD loyalists. Jemma had mostly acted as a sounding board for Fitz, weighing in on the science side of their missions as best she could while on medical leave.

As busy and fraught as the week had been, Phil had been as attentive and affectionate as she might have wished. They didn’t have a great deal of downtime, but he made the most of what time they had, and she suspected that he was getting more sleep than he might have, otherwise, simply out of deference to her. 

“Another one down,” he said with a grin, appearing in the door to the lab one afternoon. “They’ll be back this evening, probably.”

He took her hand after she had removed her gloves, pulling her against him as if they were beginning a dance. “Ward’s a bit battered, but otherwise they came out of it without a scratch.”

“Good.” 

She wasn’t entirely surprised when he began to sway, leading her into some slow variation of swing set to no actual music. “Ward spoke with one of his contacts; he thinks he has a lead on the Clairvoyant.”

The lab was not a very safe place to be dancing, but his enthusiasm was so infectious she let him twirl her before dropping her into a dramatic dip. “Things are looking up, then,” she replied, smiling up at him from her bent position. “Perhaps we should have dinner ready for them.”

“Good idea.” 

She was upright and in a kiss before she knew it, and could only think that Ward’s lead must be very good indeed, for him to be so chipper. 

“Sorry to interrupt, Agent Coulson, but when you have a moment Agent May is on the line.” 

Koenig’s voice made them break apart, their lanyards temporarily tangling together. Phil was still chuckling when he left, a bounce to his step that she hadn’t seen in a while. 

The others arrived in time for dinner, Fitz complaining vociferously to her about forests and dirt and how difficult it was to put certain equipment together in the mud. She wondered, occasionally, about the person whose _Really, sci-fi dude?_ was printed sloppily at the base of his neck, and hoped that the person in question was extremely patient.

Phil, who was still in an excellent mood when they went to bed, managed to make her sigh and curse and beg over the course of an hour. Her mind was whirling in a daze by the time they were both sated, his head lying against her breasts. “This is big, Jemma,” he said, one hand stroking her thigh lazily. “This could change everything.”

“Ward’s lead is solid, then?”

He had always been one for pillow-talk, but in the early days he had tended to spend it praising her. Not a bad thing, really, but this new realm of conversation was still thrilling. 

“If his contact is right, we would be dealing a very significant blow to Hydra.” She could feel his lips curve upward against her skin. “Give us some breathing room. Maybe we could take a day.”

“And do what?” She was struggling to keep awake, by that point, trying not to miss a word, but her eyelids were slipping shut despite her best efforts.

“We could elope.” 

That woke her up. He moved off of her, lounging to her side. His expression was a mix of eagerness and worry she had never quite seen before. “Not with that old ring, obviously,” he said, catching one of her hands in his and brushing his lips against her knuckles. “I’m moving too fast again, I know.”

She rolled onto her side to face him, both curious and somewhat flustered. “Then why are you asking?”

“Because I want to be your husband, for as long as we have left.” He gave her a small smile, still stroking the fingers of the hand he held. “Take a chance on an old fool, Jemma?”

Her expression in response must have been blank, or otherwise unpromising, because his hopeful look began to dim. “Shouldn’t have asked,” he said with a shrug, and kissed her hand. “Maybe when-”

“Yes,” she blurted out, interrupting him mid-sentence. If Hydra had never happened, if Audrey had never happened, then perhaps she might have said soft words about waiting a little longer until she was sure of him. They didn’t have the luxury of time, now, and while her reasons might not be ideal, they were _hers_ , and so was he, dammit. “Do we have to go to Vegas?”

“It would be fastest.” He was smiling again, in a shyly pleased kind of way that told her he hadn’t been sure of her answer at all. “But we don’t have to find an Elvis impersonator. We could find a quiet chapel off the strip, and then a quiet room.”

“Our IDs have probably been flagged. Won’t we be courting an arrest? Being detained by Talbot would not make for a good honeymoon.”

“It’s a risk, but with as many marriages as they process in Clark County, I think we might be able to fly under the radar just long enough to tie the knot.” He released her hand, reaching out to stroke the skin of her shoulder. “I have a friend who would be willing to slip our license to the bottom of the pile, but she does work for one of the bigger chapels.”

The idea shouldn’t have amused her, but it did. “So we would have our choice between young Elvis and old Elvis?”

“Or an old Elvis unsuccessfully masquerading as a young Elvis.” 

“I would rather opt for a bit more safety and be married by a man wearing gold lame.” She moved closer, slipping an arm around his back. “Besides, who would ever guess that Agent Coulson would opt for a quickie wedding in a tacky chapel? I’m sure everyone has you pegged as wanting a traditional wedding with a vintage flair.” 

“Elvis isn’t vintage enough for you?” He ducked his head closer to hers, his scruff tickling her forehead. “Thank you, sweetheart.” The words were murmured, his voice heavy with emotion. “This means a lot to me.”

She was beginning to feel sleepy again, tucked into his arms. “It would be nice to have it all nice and legal.” She laughed quietly, imagining the look on Talbot’s face when he realized that two of his fugitives had managed to make their marriage public record without so much as a whisper. 

Phil drew her closer, rolling onto his back so that she could settle against his chest. “I just want to be your husband,” he admitted. “Screw tax write-offs; I want a ring and a wife.”

They didn’t need an actual ceremony for that, but he was a traditionalist at heart, in many ways. “Then you shall have them,” she promised, patting a hand lightly against his chest. “Go to sleep, dear. We have an empire to topple.”

\- - -

Ward’s contact said Romania was the place to go. Their team would be small- Trip, May, and Fitz, as well as Coulson himself. Jemma had nixed the idea of Ward going back into the field after seeing his injuries; while they would heal quickly, she worried that further damage to his right ulna would mean surgical intervention, and so he stayed behind to guard the base. 

“I’ll be able to bust through the last firewalls, now that I have some dedicated time,” Skye promised Phil as they were preparing to leave. She stuck her hands into her pockets, grinning at him. “Would finally getting the footage be worth a victory ride in Lola, maybe?”

“Find that footage and I might even let you drive,” he replied, regretting the words immediately. “In and out, Skye. Don’t leave a single trace behind.”

“You bet, AC.”

Jemma he said goodbye to in a quiet hall off the hangar, kissing her lingeringly in a dim corner that needed a new lightbulb. “Be thinking about your musical request,” he said, running a hand over her hair. “I think we get two songs with the basic package.”

“Couldn’t we pay him extra to not sing?” she asked with a smile.

“He gives away the bride, too.”

She rested her head against his shoulder, shaking with laughter. “Well, if we are going to go all in, we might as well ask for ‘Big Boss Man’ and ‘Hard Headed Woman’.”

“You are anything but a thorn in my side, sweetheart.” He was being overprotective again, but he was glad that she was remaining behind. She had some fine-tuning to do with their current ICER blend, and while he didn’t understand the science both she and Fitz were enthused and insistent that it would be beneficial to their armory. “I’ll give you a call later.”

Their current plane had nothing on the Bus, but the smaller size and increased speed would be on their side for this mission. May gave him a meaningful look as she headed into the cockpit, and after a moment of hesitation he followed. He still wasn’t pleased about her duplicity- but that was an understatement, really. He could still remember the look on Jemma’s face as she had taken in the news, the way she had flushed red with embarrassment and hunched her shoulders forward instinctively, her mind leaping automatically to exactly the wrong reason as to why May had chosen her. 

He could fault May for many things, but he knew that she had chosen Jemma for one reason and one reason only: because she was the best biochemist SHIELD had to offer, and she was the best fit for Fury’s hidden agenda. That she was his soulmate was just an unexpected bonus. Anyone else putting together a team for the same purpose would have thrown Jemma into the mix solely as a distraction for him, but with May practicality came first.

“What?”

The glare she leveled at him was both sharp and weary. “I have an errand to run after this.”

He stared at her, perplexed. “What, a run to the corner store?”

“I need to talk to Hill.” She was going through her preliminary checks almost by rote, which told him, more than anything, what her current mental state was. “I’m going to find out who headed Operation TAHITI.”

In a strange way it sounded like an apology. “What’s the point?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders. “Unless you’re trying to stay ahead of me; figure out what kind of symptoms to look for. If you have to put a bullet in my brain, May, you’d better take excellent care of Jemma afterward. I will haunt the fuck out of you if she gets hurt or wants for anything.”

Her mouth tightened into a flat line, and the way she jammed her sunglasses on looked rough and painful. “God forbid I try to find something that might _help_ ,” she muttered. “Get out.”

He could only imagine that Jemma would give him some kind of sorrowful, gently chiding look once he told her about that little encounter. She did tend toward peace-making, when at all possible, and he didn’t think she would approve of him trying to pick a fight. 

It still hurt, though- that May, who had been his trusted friend for so many years, would keep a secret of that magnitude. Worse was the thought that Fury had made plans in case he became mentally or physically unstable, and had allowed Jemma to become tangled in that mess. If Phil himself became a danger to her-

Not worth thinking of. He would just have to trust that he would have the presence of mind to take himself out, or that May would do it for him.

\- - -

In retrospect, Ward had not been acting odd. He had been acting like _Ward_ , albeit a bit more attentive to Jemma than was his norm. “So it’s more efficient?” he asked her, sliding a test round into his gun and hefting the weapon. “I don’t see much of a difference.”

“Very efficient, and the cartridges hold two more bullets apiece.” She held up one of the cartridges that Fitz had prepared before leaving, feeling very pleased with herself for finally figuring out the right chemical combination. “Smaller dosage, but it will take out your opponent even more quickly.”

“Huh.” He was still weighing the gun in his hand, the expression on his face leading her to believe that he might start complaining about that damn half an ounce again. “You and Coulson doing okay?”

She gave him a surprised look, placing the cartridge carefully on the table. Ward wasn’t one to bring up feelings, generally. “Very well, thank you.” She turned away slightly to tidy her workstation, casting him a sideways glance. He had been edging around Skye ever since returning from his last mission, and she wondered if this was somehow related. They weren’t soulmates- she wasn’t sure if Ward even had a soulmark, really, because she had certainly never seen or heard rumor of one- but it was clear that he had more than a passing fondness for their resident hacker. 

Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but Ward was intense when it came to Skye, and Jemma couldn’t help but feel that only trouble lay down that path. 

“Good.” Ward nodded approvingly, his attention still fixed on the gun. “It must be nice, to know someone is that devoted to you.”

Perhaps he had hit his head on the last mission. Someone should have told her to check for a concussion. “Well, that’s the way he is,” she said slowly. “He doesn’t do anything half-arsed.”

“Yeah, I figured that part out.” He looked up, smiling slightly when he caught her worried look. “Have you tested the blend yet?”

“Not on a person,” she said after a moment, confused by the change of topic. “I doubt I would get a volunteer, but the science is sound.”

“I have no doubt.” 

When he pointed the weapon in her direction she at first thought it was some kind of bizarre joke. Grant Ward, specialist of the decade and captain of the safety squad, just did not take aim at his teammates. 

“Is it the half ounce again?” she asked with a weak laugh. “Silly Fitz; he never can get it right.”

“Nope, perfectly balanced.” He kept his hand steady. “Pay attention, Simmons. You really should know what this feels like.”

In the split-second of consciousness available to her after he fired and the bullet struck, all she felt was cold- a temperature so intense that it was like being flash-frozen. 

Then nothing.

\- - -

She woke on a hard floor to the sound of Skye cursing loudly and passionately. Jemma tried to speak, but her tongue didn’t seem to be working.

“I am going to _pull out your eyeballs_ with a _spork_ , you son of a fucking demon, and then I am going to feed them to you and-”

Jemma concentrated on moving her hands, testing one finger at a time until she felt confident that she wasn’t actually paralyzed. Chilled, yes, and not running anytime soon, but possessed of a full range of motion. She coughed, and her second attempt at speech went much better. “Skye?”

The spill of profanity stopped abruptly and the younger woman dropped to the floor in a kneel. “How many fingers am I holding up?” she asked immediately, spreading one hand out above Jemma’s face.

“Five.”

“Hopefully that wasn’t a good guess.” 

A look at Skye’s face told Jemma that she was beyond fury at that moment. “Did- did Ward-?”

“Shoot you? Yeah.” Skye grimaced. “The little prick managed to coax me on board, then the next thing I know he tosses me in here with you.”

“I was not expecting this.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting Agent Robot to be Hydra scum either.” Skye was practically vibrating with rage. “Any tips to getting out of this interrogation room?”

“No.” Jemma draped her arm over her eyes, desperate for some aspirin and a wool blanket. “Koenig?”

“Haven’t seen him.” 

Skye refrained from shouting after that, though whether she was trying to preserve her voice or whether it was in deference to Jemma’s incipient migraine was unclear. 

It was several hours before the door opened, hours that Jemma spent shivering on the floor in an uneasy doze. She didn’t move quickly enough when their cell was invaded, and as she tried to sit up and scrabble backwards a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.

“Dr. Simmons, you are looking as lovely as ever.”

Garrett, of course. He had her hoisted high enough that she was on her toes, and her muscles were really not up to this kind of strain, not yet. She didn’t bother replying; just bit her lip as she tried not to make a sound. 

“So, your hard-drive,” he said, turning his head to grin at Skye. “You put restrictions on it; I want those restrictions removed. Let’s skip the posturing and cut to the chase, hmm?” He shook Jemma by the arm, his grin widening as she gasped in pain. “Be a good little girl and put in the right password, and I won’t hurt Dr. Simmons any more than necessary.”

Skye shot Jemma a worried glance. “She’s too big a bargaining chip for you to mishandle.”

“You know, surgeons can do some amazing things,” he mused. “You can do a lot to a person without killing them. Imagine the look on Coulson’s face if he started to receive his girl one piece at a time, with his mark still black.”

That sounded like a very good way to bring on the apocalypse to Jemma, and she said so.

“Yeah, but our boy Phil is bad to just charge in without thinking when he gets upset.” Garrett shrugged, his expression inviting her to share the joke. “That’s how he died the first time. Is it a place, maybe? Where does the damn thing unlock?”

He shook Jemma again for good measure, nearly wrenching her shoulder out of its socket. “Coordinates, Skye. Quick.”

“Altitude,” Skye snapped out, and Jemma missed her next words when Garrett released her suddenly and she tumbled to the floor. “No coordinates, just the right altitude, and then a password.”

From her spot on the ground Jemma watched as Garrett bowed dramatically toward the door. “Then if you will do the honors, Agent Skye.”

Skye’s reply was anatomically impossible, but she stalked toward the door nonetheless, her outrage clear with every step. Within seconds Jemma was alone in the room, her head spinning. “Works much too well,” she grumbled as she crawled to the corner furthest from the door. “Project an unfortunate success.”

\- - -

Romania was a bust, by and large, but they did get an extra plane out of the deal, and that was something. Of course, May immediately claimed it as her property and disappeared into the sunset. She would be back, Phil was sure of that much, but he was still pissed off about the entire thing.

Then they returned to the base only to find no Bus and no agents, save for a very dead Koenig stashed in a supply closet (the find heralded by a scream from Fitz that probably rang through every corner of Providence). The ragtag remnants of SHIELD could tell Phil nothing- there was no chatter on the back channels, and no one had sighted the Bus or his missing people. 

Why they had left was no mystery. The base was covered with cameras, and it took little time for Fitz to find the footage of Ward shooting Jemma in the lab and subsequently hauling her unconscious body onto the Bus. He played a different game with Skye, who followed him with every evidence of willingness onto the plane and then- well, who knew, after that. 

“They’re not working together,” Phil said quietly before either of the other men could. “Not Skye.”

“‘Course not,” Fitz said immediately, running a hand through his hair in irritation. “Skye’s not like that; she wouldn’t have anything to do with shooting poor little Jem.”

The footage of that had been a shock in itself. “What can you tell me about the new cartridges, Fitz?”

Fitz grimaced. “They pack a punch, sad to say. Not fatal, but up will be down and vise versa for a while.”

“If Ward’s Hydra, we have to assume that he’ll be meeting up with Garrett.” Trip pulled out a chair and spun it around, sitting on it backward. “If he wants something from you, we’ll be hearing from him.”

“What he wants might have nothing to do with me at all,” Phil replied, considering the possibilities quickly. “Ward has the hard-drive. Knowing Skye, she put some kind of password on it.”

“And what if he wants the GH325?” Fitz asked sharply. “No one alive knows more about it than Jemma. The bastard sent us off on a wild errand on purpose.”

“So where do we start?”

Trip’s question left them all silent. Skye might have been able to ferret out the information about Garrett’s next move, but none of them could match her skill. With SHIELD as fragmented as it was, word might never come. 

And then Phil remembered. “The ring,” he said, straightening. His mistake was about to pay off. “I put a tracker in the ring.”

Fitz gave him a look that managed to communicate that he was both a terrible person and, for the moment, brilliant. “You put a tracker in Jem’s engagement ring?” he asked in disbelief, ignoring Trip when he gave a snort of disbelieving laughter. “No wonder she tossed it away in one of the storage rooms.”

“She didn’t know,” Phil admitted as he engaged the tracker. Trip sounded a little bit as if he were dying. “I was an idiot, and I’ll apologize to her after I bash Garrett’s head in.”

“Won’t be doing that again, I hope,” Fitz muttered, looking ruffled and indignant.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The small dot that appeared on the screen, smack in the middle of the Pacific, was like a miracle in and of itself. “I’ll just tell her upfront, next time.”

He would have one put into his wedding ring to even the score. Fitz would enjoy doing that, most likely. Fitz would probably even bribe Skye to build some kind of phone app to track his every move, and Phil didn’t give a damn as long as this gamble paid off. 

Phil glared in turn at his two companions. “Are you coming with me or not?”

Fitz sighed heavily, nodding.

Trip was still laughing, somewhat, but he met Phil’s gaze squarely. All Phil knew about Trip’s soulmate was that he had met that particular person, and his mark ( _Yes, please_ ) was still dark around his left ring finger. He didn’t talk about the man or woman waiting for him in the outside world, and for all Phil knew they were divided not by miles, but by loyalties. Trip’s eyes darted briefly to the black that could be seen like a dull smudge under Phil’s white shirt-sleeves, and he nodded. “You’re the boss.”

\- - -

Jemma expected that Garrett would keep them alive. Ward’s obsession with Skye was clear, and Jemma herself was too useful a tool to just toss to the side, a fact that she acknowledged easily. Jemma knew just how smart she was, and just how much of an asset she could be to any organization- and, of course, how valuable she was as a hostage in general. 

Thus it was a surprise when, nearly twenty-four hours after she had first woken up, they were herded to the med pod that Skye had once spent so much time in. 

“So sorry to say goodbye, ladies,” Garrett said with an irritated grin, glaring at Ward when he opened his mouth to protest. “But someone is on our tail, and I can only imagine that Phil miraculously managed to follow his little darling here.” His hand patting her arse was a surprise, and an unwelcome one. “Did he plant a tracker on you? Where did he put it?”

“Don’t be crass.” She edged as far away from him as possible, bumping into Skye. “He didn’t put a bloody tracker in me.”

She rather wished he had, though. 

“I think he did,” Garrett replied cheerfully. “So in you go. I’ll reward his deviousness with a little present, provided the impact doesn’t kill you. When did he do it, do you think? While you were sleeping?”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer, shoving them in and slamming the door before they could reply. 

“Secure everything,” Jemma gasped out as she rebounded from the wall. “Cabinets, drawers, _shit_ , this is bed is going to fucking kill us.”

“Did AC really plant a tracker on you?” Skye asked in disbelief as she began snapping the locks on the drawers. “That’s kind of kinky.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Not surgically, anyway, because she would have noticed, dammit, and her ensuing fury would have been righteous. She secured the last cabinet as the med pod swayed, and dropped to her knees, crawling under the bed with Skye close behind. 

“Jemma?” Skye said in a quiet voice, the outward movement of the pod halting. “You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”

Jemma wrapped an arm around Skye from behind, taking her hand. “Try to stay loose,” she said, feeling her breath shorten with an incipient panic attack. “Tensing will make the impact worse. And you needn’t worry,” she continued. “The mark is a guarantee, and you haven’t met yours yet.”

Skye’s laugh was more of a sob. “You-”

“It was a brilliant day, when they black-bagged you and dragged you onto the Bus,” Jemma said, interrupting her in the last seconds they might have, desperate to say the words. “I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.” She hesitated. “Tell Phil I love him.”

Free fall.


	6. with ev'ry turn around

The impact snapped them both up against the underside of the bed, and on instinct Jemma tucked herself around Skye, sheltering her head. Miraculously her own head missed a direct hit, though she felt so rattled upon hitting the floor that it took her what felt like a very long time to pull herself out from under the bed. 

“That sucked,” Skye moaned. “Like every time I fell off the jungle gym as a kid, but times a million.”

Jemma took stock of her own injuries as she sat up among the wreckage of the small room. Bruises, yes. Possible whiplash, yes. A sore left arm- the one Skye had landed on- that might be caused by a bone bruise, or possibly something worse. Really, it was a miracle that she was in such a good shape at all. “Any broken limbs?” she asked Skye, her voice sounding weaker than she liked. “Talk to me, Skye.”

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a car, but everything moves.” 

A bedraggled Skye dragged herself out from under the bed to join her, a nasty cut on one temple. “You scratched me,” she said with a lopsided grin, pointing at her head. “Just for the record.”

Jemma lifted one hand with a frown, noting for the first time the nail jerked off below the quick and the blood smeared across a few fingers. “Not very nice of me.”

“Better than a concussion or a broken neck.” Skye began to stand, and then froze in a hunched position when the box rocked. “Umm, that’s bad, right?”

The glass of one window was tilted into the water, and the sight of it was enough to make Jemma swear off glass-bottomed boats for life. The window on the door rested above the waterline, and she inched toward it carefully, her stomach dropping as the floor beneath her swayed. At first glance outside the glass she thought they might be floating, but little by little water crept up the window. 

“We’re sinking. Slowly.”

Skye was quiet at that. “Guarantee, Jem,” she said finally, tugging up her shirt as a reminder when Jemma looked back at her. “We’re both getting out of here, okay?”

Logic certainly argued that if they had both survived thus far, they would both be leaving- but she wasn’t entirely sure. “We could probably force the door open,” she said in reply. “But the water rushing in would sink the box even more quickly, and we might be drawn down after it.”

“Adrenaline should kick in though, right?” Skye began inching toward her, but stopped when the box began to tilt the door further toward the water. “We could tread water.”

“For a while.” Until they grew too tired, or until sunstroke set in. 

Skye backed away to the other side of the small room, and the box tilted upward slightly. “Interested in trying to turn this over?”

“The bed.” Jemma inclined her head toward the heavy frame, wincing at the twinge of pain. “We would have to dodge it, and I’m afraid that the impact might make us sink faster.”

“Right.” Skye looked up at the ceiling, biting her lip. “Is it too much to hope that AC really did hide a tracker on you somewhere?”

Jemma sighed. “No strange bumps from a middle of the night injection, and he’s never given me any jewelry, so unless he planted it in the hem of this shirt-”

Skye unexpectedly burst out laughing. “He did give you one piece of jewelry.”

“He did not-”

Jemma stopped, a strangled laugh escaping her mouth. “Oh, that.”

“Garrett tosses us out of the Bus and all you can say is, ‘Oh, that’?”

She shouldn’t have been laughing, but it really was rather funny, in a bizarre way. “It’s on the Bus.”

Skye groaned. “Dammit, Jemma, I thought you were wearing it on a chain under your shirt, or something.”

“No.” Jemma shook her head, aware that she was having a fit of hysteria and not quite caring. “After you were shot I threw it into a box in the storage room and never went back for it.”

“Really.” Skye looked stunned, but her expression quickly turned calculating. “I never really asked exactly what happened, I guess.”

Jemma shrugged, carefully sitting on the floor. “It took us some time to figure out how to effectively communicate with each other.”

“They don’t touch on that in the movies.”

“No.” No, the movies rarely did, except in the horror genre. It was too easy to skip from meeting to happily ever after- a laughable concept- tying everything up in one delightful montage. Jemma had wanted the intimacy of a good bond so badly that perhaps she had rushed things, a bit.

She had always liked sleeping with someone, though. Not the sex, necessarily, though she was incredibly appreciative of fate for handing her an excellent lover. Jemma just had a special fondness for sharing a bed, for falling asleep at night with a strong arm around her waist and a ready source of heat beside her. She liked to cuddle, and she liked the sense of safety she felt when she slept beside someone as protective as Phil. 

Jemma had wanted that safety and protectiveness the night after her jump, and that desire had spurred her to walk quietly up the stairs that had separated them and to sit at the foot of his bed, waiting for him to wake up. Even then she had known better than to simply crawl under the covers; a man with his reflexes might have mistaken her for an enemy while half-asleep. 

She wasn’t quite sure what she would have done if he was a heavier sleeper. She didn’t think that she would have slept at his feet, like some modern-day Ruth, but she couldn’t swear to that.

“You go into it with all these fantasies, built up over years of waiting and watching,” Jemma said with a sigh. “And they’re nothing like what you thought, of course. I was right that he’s a romantic, but-”

She stopped abruptly, realizing that she was about to veer into some very personal territory.

“It’s not hopeless, though?”

Jemma looked to Skye, realizing that the other woman looked very glum, especially in the dimming light of the pod. “I’m so happy with him.” She laughed quietly, wiping a tear from one cheek. “I think we both find each other exasperating, sometimes, but I would be worried if we didn’t.”

Exasperating, yes, but he touched her like she was precious, and sometimes when he looked at her she could see every year spent waiting in his eyes. He deserved to be so happy, her stubborn man, and she didn’t really have a problem with trying to foist happiness upon him if she lived through this. She had a feeling that snuggling up on his lap on a regular basis would at least help lower his blood pressure. 

“You’ll tell him, won’t you?” Jemma asked Skye a bit desperately. “If things go pear-shaped. You’ll tell him that I love him, and that I will be very upset from the afterlife if he stops eating or gets himself killed in some terrible revenge plot.”

“Tell him yourself.” Skye scowled at her. “I don’t like the idea of being your messenger. AC might cry, or something. I’m not sure I want to see that.”

It was beginning to be hard to take in a full breath, but it was not due to a lack of oxygen. Jemma fully recognized the signs of an imminent panic attack, especially in herself. “Maybe we should try to climb out, after all,” she heard herself say in a quiet voice, feeling damp patches of sweat begin to form under her arms. “Before the door is covered by too much water.”

“Right.” Skye gave her a knowing look. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” 

\- - -

“ _Sir!_ ”

Trip’s voice spurred him into a half-run on his way to the cockpit, but when he arrived all he saw was the same view as always: blue sky, blue ocean. “What is it?”

“A few miles ahead.” Trip tipped his head forward at a barely discernible white dot in the distance. “Not on the radar, but I don’t think that’s just a swell.”

Phil glanced toward the nearby screen, where the signal from the tracker still flickered comfortingly. “Fly over it.”

Trip turned away from the controls, his face perfectly straight. “Fly over it?”

“You disagree, Agent Triplett?” He felt too antsy to be having this conversation. He wanted to skip directly to the aftermath of this wretched situation, in which he tucked Jemma into a warm bed and then spent the night sleepless beside her, like a dragon guarding its horde of gold. 

“I think that we’re following a ring in a storage room,” Trip said bluntly. “I think Garrett dumped his inconvenient cargo in a very convenient container.”

“The medical pod?” Fitz stepped into the cockpit behind Phil, his gaze sharp. “You think he dumped our girls out into the ocean in a damn med pod?”

“I think he got a hint of what was following him and assumed that Agent Coulson planted the tracker directly on Agent Simmons.” Trip’s shrug was primarily _I get you, man_ , but there was a definite hint of censure, there. “Let’s be fair- Garrett’s the kind of guy who would assume that tagging your romantic partner is fair play.”

“I trust Jemma completely,” Phil said in an acidic tone, both incredibly pissed off and guilt-ridden at the same time. “It’s the enemies I’ve made over the years that I don’t trust.”

“Could’ve said something to her,” Fitz muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“A definite mistake, yes.” It hadn’t been that he had purposefully neglected to tell her. It was simply that, in the wake of his new-born desire to be open with her, a ring that was no longer a part of their lives had seemed to be a lesser concern. He glanced toward the screen again, the signal still strong and consistent. “We can make a stop, I suppose.”

A choice he was very glad of once they drew closer to the strange white spot and it became clear that the rapidly sinking box was, indeed, the med pod- and that someone was clinging to the top. 

Skye was the one they pulled from the top of the box, her hair plastered with sea water and her eyes wild. “She made me get out first,” she said quickly, the words spilling out in a tumbled rush. The small quinjet was hovering above the pod, Trip doing his best to keep pace with the minute drift of the box through the waves. Phil looked past Skye, down the rope ladder and at the open door. “I couldn’t pull her out.”

The pod was close to submersion, and Phil could tell at a glance that settling his own weight on the surface would just bring on the inevitable end faster. “Trip.”

“Nice and steady,” Trip replied, his voice faint from the cockpit. “You don’t need to tell me, Coulson.”

The end of the ladder dangled neatly over the open door, and Phil blessed the despised classes on water rescues that he had once had to endure. “Jemma?”

The interior of the pod was dark, but he could vaguely make out the shift of a body below him. “This wasn’t my best idea,” she said a bit mournfully. 

He had a fairly good idea of how it had all gone down- Jemma, being Jemma, had made sure of Skye’s safety above her own. Probably hadn’t even made mention of how physics would affect the pod with one door open and two bodies near the waterline. “Either I get you out or I jump down there with you,” he said firmly. “Are you injured?”

“Not too badly.” He could see her stand, the top of her head brushing the light that crept inside. One hand reached up toward him, missing by several feet. “I’m going to punch you if you jump inside,” she warned, drawing her hand back into the darkness. “There will be no last-minute snogging, Phil.”

“Oh, I’m planning on getting you out.” He felt very calm, all things considering. “Who else is going to run off with me to Vegas?”

The box rocked as she climbed up onto some unsteady object- the bed, he saw after a moment, now toppled onto its side- and she sniffled. “I was planning on buying some very nice lingerie.” Her hand missed his by mere inches. “Or some very trashy lingerie. I hadn’t quite decided.”

“Buy both.” He kept his right hand held out to her, eyeing the lapping waves. “You’re going to have to jump, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.”

He had better. One missed connection and her weight might be enough to sink the damn thing. He would be drop-kicking Garrett out of the Bus mid-flight for this, sans parachute.

Their hands met in a tight clasp, and he choked back a grunt as her weight dragged him downward, straining his muscles. “Trip, ease up!”

The quinjet rose roughly six feet higher, pulling Jemma free from the doorway. She had both hands clasped around one of his, and as soon as she was able planted her feet on the exterior of the pod, giving him an instant of relief. It was easy, after that, to get her up the ladder and into the plane, but he couldn’t quite shake from his mind the alternate ways the scene could have played out. 

“Sir?” Trip had temporarily engaged the autopilot, and he was standing at the entrance to the cockpit, an expectant look on his face. “Abort?”

Jemma was half in his lap, shivering under the jacket he had draped around his shoulders. As furious as he was with Garrett, attacking the Bus was no longer an option, not with two people who needed medical care aboard. “Abort. We’ll still be able to find them when we’re ready.”

Surprisingly, Jemma gave a wild little laugh. “So you did plant a tracker in the ring.”

“Guilty.” 

She leaned her head against his shoulder, her hair damp against his neck. “Later I’m going to scold you,” she informed him, and yawned. “I just need to gather my thoughts.”

“Take as long as you need.”

To think he had nearly ordered Trip to fly over them. If he had actually done so, only to find out the truth from Garrett’s lips… the guilt would have been enormous. 

“Stop thinking so hard,” she murmured, catching one of his hands in her cold ones. “Skye and I are both fine.”

This time. Jemma was just a magnet for trouble, which couldn’t be good for his heart. “I know.”

\- - -

They couldn’t return to Providence, which was unfortunate. Before they drew close Trip heard strange chatter on the back channels, and it was mere luck that they had been able to slip away before Talbot and his men realized they were near. Jemma slept through that actual part, only to wake to the news that they were going to ground in a safehouse near Ontario. 

Trip made a supply run once they had settled in, returning with several bulging bags from a local superstore that contained several changes of clothing for everyone, as well as food. He had very good taste, for a man, and Jemma was so happy to see dry, clean pajamas that she briefly considered kissing him. 

Phil piled several blankets onto the bed before joining her, a thoughtful gesture that she very much appreciated. He barely flinched when she snuck her cold hands under his shirt. “Should we be worried about May?” she asked, slightly uneasy. She had made her own peace with May’s secret agenda, but Phil clearly had not. “With Talbot at Providence?”

“She’s too smart to get suckered into that trap.” He sighed heavily. “I barely know how to act around her.”

“Have you never followed an order from Fury that you disliked or regretted?” 

He was still beside her, one hand pausing in a sweep down her back. “Yes,” he admitted finally.

“I doubt she’s enjoyed this very much, given your long friendship.” 

“She embarrassed you.” He said the words quickly, and she was momentarily startled by the vehemence in his voice. “Even if that wasn’t her intent, you thought you were only around as-”

“As a plaything,” she said calmly once he trailed off. “At first, yes, but May’s not the type, not really.” She felt a shudder run through her. “And neither are you. It would have been different if I had been bonded with someone like… like Garrett. We might have had our issues, but you care enough to work through them instead of pushing them to the side.”

He grumbled low in his throat as she spoke, obviously not liking her example very much. “He didn’t… pester you, did he?”

“A brief grope.” 

His reaction was to pull her closer, which she was perfectly fine with. “He won’t be around much longer.”

“You sound like you’re about to challenge him to a duel.”

“Pistols at dawn would be too charitable.”

It had been hours since he had pulled her from the ocean, and she was finally beginning to feel warm. He was too tense, though, making her feel as if she were resting against a statue. “Would celebratory sex be out of the question?”

Relaxing him would just be a bonus, really. Her close call (and she had too many of them, which was unfortunate) had her feeling jittery and clingy, and a round of _thank God we’re not dead_ sex sounded just about perfect.

One hand tightened on her waist in the dark. “We’re not talking about Garrett anymore, right?”

“No, Phil.” She began squirming out of her pajama bottoms and underwear, kicking them to the bottom of the bed under the mountain of blankets. “It’s just nice to be alive, isn’t it? I’m very interested in taking advantage of all these nerve endings and the remnants of the adrenaline surge fr-”

He really was very good with his hands. “Keep going,” he said when she stuttered to a stop. His other hand pushed up her shirt. “I like hearing you talk about science. The passion in your voice is… stimulating.”

“It’s a very interesting topic,” she replied, her voice barely audible as she arched upward. “Perhaps you would like to hear about covalent bonds- or organic chemistry-”

The mere mention of organic chemistry, forever after, would make her blush.

\- - -

He hadn’t expected to sleep, but Jemma’s unexpected ambush had knocked him out for several hours. It was the vibration of his phone that woke him, and as soon as he realized that he wasn’t dreaming he grabbed it. Jemma didn’t even twitch beside him, breathing deep and even in their warm nest.

“I need to speak with you.”

May. He wasn’t even surprised. “We moved base,” he said quietly, keeping an eye on Jemma to make sure she didn’t wake. “I won’t tell you exactly where, but if you recall the time we discussed that bear in Geneva…”

She hummed quietly in response, which was as good as a verification of coordinates, with May. “I’m with Hill.” There was a murmur in the background, presumably from the former deputy director. “And Fury.”

He was fairly certain that his heart briefly stopped beating. “Excuse me?”

Jemma stirred awake at his loud reply, the arm draped over his chest tightening reflexively. She didn’t speak, but instead lay alert beside him as he tried to process this latest bit of information. 

“It was a cover,” May said flatly. “We’ll be with you by morning.”

She hung up at that, and he took a moment to stare blankly at the phone in his hand. “Fury is alive.”

Jemma sighed in relief, propping her head on his shoulder. “That is good news, isn’t it?” 

“I was going to say ‘confusing news’.” He dropped the phone with a clatter onto the bedside table. “They’ll be here in the morning.”

“We should sleep for a few more hours, then.” The slide of her warm skin against his was like something out of a dream. “Join me, hmmm?”

“We could run.”

In response she moved away, turning on the light and propping herself up on one elbow beside him. “From what?” she asked in genuine confusion. Her hair tumbled in a tangle around her face, and he could see on the crook of her neck the distinctive shape of a hickey. How very high-school of him. 

“From SHIELD.” The idea was ridiculous, but he couldn’t help but feel that it had merit. “We could run a small coffee shop in Seattle, or somewhere in Canada.”

She was squinting at him with a look that clearly expressed her doubt in his mental capacity at that moment. “Do you know anything about being a barista?”

“No.” He shrugged. “Coffee’s nice, though, isn’t it? We could serve tea, too.”

This time her sigh was just weary. “What is this really about?”

His instinctive response was, “I’m tired of almost losing you.” He considered the words in the silence that followed and found them to be absolutely correct. “I never minded how dangerous this life was until you showed up. That’s not an accusation, it’s-”

He floundered as she waited in silence. “I waited so long for you,” he said finally, wrapping a hand over the curve of her hip. “You’re better than I ever thought you could be.”

She turned off the light. “I think that if we ran you would eventually come to feel very guilty about just that,” she said, her voice sounding choked. “I won’t have you resenting me because we opted for the safe road. Come here.”

Her tone was too demanding to ignore, and when he edged closer she pulled him down so that his head rested against her breasts. “We’re going to finish this, and then we’re going to elope. I think we should stay somewhere ridiculous for our wedding night.”

“Ridiculous as in a round bed and shag carpeting, or ridiculous as in elaborate?”

“Elaborate.” Her arms were locked around his back. “We’re going to drink champagne and I’m going to wear something very skimpy, or at least I will for roughly sixty seconds.”

“And then it’s back to business.”

They were both silent for a few minutes, and if her mind was following the same path as his she was considering the likely components of their future life: secret bases, aliases, and a definite lack of white picket fences. “I might have gone temporarily insane,” he said finally.

“I know, dear.” Her grip loosened, one hand moving to ruffle his hair gently. “I find a normal life very tempting, too,” she confided quietly. “Maybe in some alternate universe we could actually have that.”

Lucky alternate universe.

“Go to sleep,” she said in a soft, coaxing voice, her nails running lightly along his scalp. “Things will come out right in the end.”

\- - -

Jemma had never actually met Fury before, but the stories certainly made more sense now that she had been in the same room as him for longer than ten seconds. It was ridiculous to feel that he had ferreted out all of her secrets in so short a time (with one eye, at that), but the feeling of being laid bare before him was probably what had kept him at the top of the game for so many years. 

“Agent Simmons,” he said with a nod, and she was sincerely glad when he turned his attention to Phil after that.

“So let me get this straight,” he said later, an irritated undertone to his voice. “A traitor has the top of the line aircraft that I entrusted to you.”

“Yes,” Phil replied, his voice easy and casual. 

“Getting his Hydra germs all over the fucking plane.”

“Probably.”

“Dammit, Phil. Do you know how much it costs to decontaminate one of those things?”

“Does it matter?” Phil asked with a shrug. “SHIELD doesn’t exactly have a budget, these days.”

“ _Exactly_.” Fury’s gaze swung around the room,taking in everyone present. “At least your paranoia ensures that we’ll be able to find him again.”

Jemma blushed at that. By now everyone knew the story of the ring and the tracker, and if she hadn’t actually lived through an example of what Phil’s enemies would do to his soulmate, given the chance, she would have been furious. As it was, she had made a shortlist of the various ways that she could plant a tracker on him. 

She was partial to just embedding a microchip in one of his thighs- with his permission, obviously. Easy, relatively painless with the right anesthetic, and undetectable. She, on the other hand, was seriously considering having Fitz plant chips in all of her jewelry. If she ever ended up in a box in the middle of the ocean again, she wanted the signal to track directly to her. 

“As if I don’t have a multitude of reasons to be paranoid.”

It was so very, very rare that Jemma heard that level of vitriol in Phil’s voice, and like magic the majority of the team eased out of the room as if they had never been there at all. Jemma would have left- wanted to leave, in all honesty- but the words along her collarbone had her edging closer to Phil. Now she was stuck in a room with four of the most highly ranked agents remaining in the world, and she had to admit that it was unsettling. She was comfortable with Phil, and had grown used to May, but Maria Hill and Nicholas Fury were wild cards.

One of Phil’s hands took hers once she was close enough to touch, and the gentleness of his grip contrasted heavily with the hard set of his shoulders. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m okay with what you did,” Phil continued, the vitriol lessening even as his tone sharpened. “What gave you the right, Nick?”

“To bring you back?” Fury leaned with seeming casualness against the wall. “Those words on your arm, maybe.” He shrugged, surely not missing the way Jemma jerked, startled, nor the way Phil tensed. His grip on her hand was harder, now, though not unbearable. 

“Don’t make out Jemma to be a guilty party in this,” Phil warned, transferring the hand he held to his other so that he could wrap an arm around her shoulders. “I won’t have you treating her like that.”

“The mark’s a guarantee.” Fury straightened, a glint of what looked like regret in his eyes. “People don’t just die before meeting their mark, you know that. I knew that if you had met her before New York, you would have filed the correct paperwork- and you certainly wouldn’t still be dating Ms. Nathan.” 

He had a point. Jemma guessed that if they had met before New York, back before Phil had taken on the emotional baggage of death and rebirth, they would have married in fairly short order. There might even have been a baby in the picture by the time Loki had split his heart in two.

Considering the alternative, Jemma preferred their current life. “So you played God on a chance?” she said, steeling herself against the attention that was suddenly directly upon her. “Dangerous ground, Director.”

Phil’s hand curved comfortingly around her upper arm. She wanted to berate the man across from her, but she stayed still, pressing against his side. Rebirth had gotten her Phil, after all, but wasn’t that a terrible way to look at things?

“I’m going to show you the last transmission I received from the head of the TAHITI project.” Fury opened a slim laptop, angling the screen toward them. “It’s time you knew, Phil.”

He pressed play, and the world shattered. 

Phil’s arm tensed around her as his former self stared back at them, guilt written large across his face as he detailed his reasons for ending the project. The shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, and at one point he sat back, revealing that he had crossed his arms, one hand pressing against the part of his bicep that held her handwriting.

“Huh,” was all Phil said once the short film was through, the dazed shock in his voice evident.

Jemma’s mind was spinning, pulling in all she knew about GH325 and trying to put it into context with this new information. “All that for the Avengers?” she heard herself asking, a strange note of cold fury in her voice. “You did all this to resurrect an Avenger?”

“I did resurrect an Avenger,” he shot back, and some part of her noted the telling portion of his statement even as Phil dragged in a long, surprised breath.

“Who are all highly modified.” If Phil’s arm hadn’t been pinning her down, she might have done something as insane as trying to scratch out Fury’s remaining eye. “Save for Agent Barton. You took a drug intended for men and women who have already been altered by super-serum and arc reactors, or who are flat-out deities, and you used it on regular human beings? Have you never heard of the proper procedure for clinical drug trials?”

“Phil seems to be keeping it together.”

She did lunge at him at that, and in one swift second Phil’s arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her back. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear. “I’m okay.”

Jemma shook with anger against him, every cell of her body indignant with righteous scientist fury. “What the fuck were you lot playing at?” she hissed, not entirely sure who she was directing those words toward. Fury, yes, and possibly Hill and May, but even Phil seemed a likely target. He was a victim, that was for certain, but first he had been a perpetrator.

“This is why you weren’t offered the contract,” Fury informed her, a wry twist to his mouth. “I could talk Phil into damn near anything, but I knew that neither you nor Agent Fitz would accept those orders without a fight.”

Judging by the date stamp on the footage, it was likely that the project had started roughly around the time she had graduated from the academy. “You were right,” she said dully, pulling out of Phil’s arms. “I would have resigned first.”

Walking out of that room was one kind of ending. 

Packing her things and driving away before anyone came to find her was another.


	7. make my pain the same as yours

Jemma wasn’t one for anger, generally. A brief flare-up, perhaps, and then back to the relatively even keel that her mother had praised her for as a child. 

In comparison, her fury over TAHITI fueled her for over two days, and she wasn’t even sure if her outrage stemmed from the project in general, or the fact that the man she loved and relied on as a safe haven had once overseen an experiment that had depended on human trials.

Human trials. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth and kept her tossing and turning at night in her cheap little hotel rooms as she made her way west across Canada. She threw up one morning after a particularly nasty dream, one which wove together her new information with Phil’s memories of what had been done to him. He had overseen the initial trials, he had overseen the first attempts at salvaging those wrecked minds, and a part of her wanted to weep against his shoulder even as another shuddered at the fact that he had ever touched her in the first place. 

Jemma seemed to run out of emotions entirely the evening of the third day. She had her cash spread neatly onto the bed in front of her, what little remained, and for the first time she realized several very important facts: that she had no passport or driver’s license, that her money would not last for any longer than two more days, and that subsisting solely on peanut butter and crackers was really not ideal for a grown woman. 

She was fucked, in other words. Turning around was an option, but she bridled at the idea of showing up at the safehouse like some shamefaced child. They would let her back in, there was no question about that. She could sleep on a couch or one of the spare beds while doing her best to avoid Phil, but there would be no avoiding Phil. He would haunt her with well-meaning gestures until she crawled back into his arms, and she would hate herself for that. 

She still wanted to. 

Jemma carefully gathered up the bills, stacking them neatly and tucking them away in her billfold. Her head was spinning (insufficient calories, she thought carelessly), and she lay back on the hard bed, thinking of very little.

She fell asleep at some point, sinking heavily into a dreamless void that made the sudden burst of music from the alarm clock even more startling a jolt. _Jazz man take my blues away,_ the woman crooned, and she slapped at the snooze button in desperation.

“You’re shaking.”

The words were soft, and for a split-second Jemma thought she might actually be dreaming- but then a knife was at her throat, and that sliver of metal was no dream.

“Tell me where to find Agent Coulson,” the woman beside her said, and no amount of self-preservation could make Jemma open her mouth on that topic. Even as wounded as she felt, that was a line she would not cross. 

The pressure of the knife increased slightly, a sting shivering through her nerves. “I’m not a patient woman.”

“Then you might as well slit my throat now.”

After a brief pause the pressure against her throat disappeared and the bedside lamp clicked on. The woman met her gaze impassively, red hair falling around her face. “Good answer,” she said with the faintest hint of approval in her voice. “A pleasure, Agent Simmons.”

There could be no mistaking that face. “I wish I could say the same, Agent Romanov.”

The Black Widow’s mouth quirked into a grin. “I get that a lot.”

\- - -

He hadn’t expected her to leave, but she did. Right when he needed her most she had disappeared into thin air, leaving him with empty hands and an empty bed that was much too cold, even with the spare blankets still piled on top. 

“It wasn’t my intention to chase her away.” Fury appeared beside him outside the house, where he had been staring at the space where the missing car should have been. “I should have showed you that video in private.”

Phil wasn’t sure it would have helped. He had no memory of how Fury had convinced him to lead that project in the first place (what kind of man had taken that order?), but Fury’s cynical comment about Jemma’s character had been correct. Her mind would have qualified her as a Guest House researcher. Her integrity would have made her reject the offer immediately. “I would have told her, eventually,” he replied, his voice flat. “By evening at the latest.”

And she would have… done something. She would have been angry, for certain, but he wasn’t entirely sure that she would have packed to leave with him looking on, or tried to sneak out of the house after midnight with him sleeping in the same bed. 

Maybe that was for the best. She should be able to run without feeling she was tethered to his side, even if every cell in him wanted to reel her back so that he could curl up across her lap. “Why did I say yes?”

“Because I asked you to,” Fury replied after a long pause, and that sounded about right. 

It figured that he had destroyed his long-term chances with Jemma before even meeting her. He wondered if he had taken that into consideration on that day years ago, when he had let Fury coax him into doing such work. 

“It’s only been a few hours.” Fury cast him a side-long glance. “You going after her?”

It was a tempting notion, if only because he feared for her safety, alone on the road. Did she have enough money? Jemma Simmons no longer existed, not really, and if she was pulled over or asked to provide identification, only trouble would come of yet another of his decisions.

He couldn’t discount his other reasons for wanting to follow. Empty arms and an empty bed and no soft-eyed soulmate to stroke his hair and tell him that it would be all right, it would be all right. No absolution from the one person he wanted absolution from. 

“No.” He turned away from the bare parking space. “I’m going to take down Garrett.”

There would be no dragging Jemma back. Garrett, though- if he could do anything for her, it would be to neutralize the man who wouldn’t hesitate to do her harm. It would have to be enough.

\- - -

Natasha stuck to Jemma like a burr, and after the initial mix of irritation and fear Jemma found herself just accepting the situation. One of the best assassins in the world had evidently decided to adopt her, and there were worse fates. Natasha believed in regular meals, for one, and she had deep pockets.

“I could push you over with my pinky,” she said the first day they traveled together, glaring at Jemma until she took the proffered sandwich.

“You could probably do that on any day,” Jemma sassed back complacently after the first bite. “Did Phil send you?”

It would be just like him, to give her space without actually giving her space. “Nah.” Natasha broke apart a chocolate chip cookie, examining it with every indication of delight. “But I’ve been trying to find Phil, and you’re the next best thing.”

“So you figured out that he’s alive.”

“About a year ago.” Natasha shrugged. “He hasn’t exactly been subtle about it. And,” she continued, nodding at the edge of black script peeking out from under Jemma’s blouse, “there is that.”

Damn Phil and his distinctive handwriting. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me, then?”

“It was curiosity, at first. Coulson isn’t exactly your average man. He has hidden depths.”

Words truer than Natasha possibly knew. 

“Why did you run?” Natasha leaned back in her chair, watching her with an assessing gaze. “He’s never been one to make a woman purposefully unhappy, and he’s definitely not the type to beat one.”

Jemma kept her gaze on her hands, silent.

“Very well.”

That was the nice thing about Natasha. She knew when to back off, just as she knew the perfect time to arrow in for the kill. 

“There is a job you could do, you know,” she said- not the first day, or the second, but the third, as they drove into Victoria. “Unless you have plans.”

Jemma’s only plan had been to _get out get out get out_ , which had worked surprisingly well, given that she had fled from a nest of spies into the web of another. “What is it?”

Natasha slowed conscientiously to a stop at a red light. “You could take down Hydra from the inside,” she said, red lips curving upward slightly. “Imagine how quick they would snap you up- Coulson’s brilliant scientist with an axe to grind.”

The quickening of Jemma’s breath was not from fear, but, unexpectedly, interest. “And wear turtlenecks to the lab everyday?”

“No.” Natasha shimmied her own shoulders slightly, lowering the neckline of her shirt even as she made the move look natural and easy. “Let them stare. Make sure everyone knows.”

“But-”

“Make sure everyone knows,” Natasha repeated firmly, turning her attention back to traffic. “Tell them about her- about the cellist. About how much he loves her, and how he murmurs her name in the dark.”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Jemma gasped, furious all over again. 

“It isn’t kind,” Natasha admitted, dropping the act. “It isn’t true. But I would guess that every male member of Hydra’s top brass will believe every word. It’s what they like to think about women, after all- that we’re jealous little creatures intent on a ring.”

“I wouldn’t have minded a ring,” Jemma said softly after a moment. The ache of missing him was almost physical, and only grew worse by the day. 

“It isn’t too late to go back.”

“I ran away like a child pitching a fit.” Nearly a week after leaving, and there the truth was. “It’s terrible- the entire project was terrible- but he doesn’t remember it and it hurt him so much, and I just left him there.”

Tears didn’t seem to bother Natasha. She didn’t ask Jemma what the project had been, but Jemma assumed that she had known all along. “We all have red in our ledger,” she replied soberly, digging a packet of tissues out of her purse and handing it to Jemma. “Even you.”

Jemma wiped the tears from her cheeks, remembering when love had seemed easier and she had slept safely at night. “I’ll think on it.”

\- - -

Leaving the safehouse was harder than he had expected. Plans had been made- good, solid plans- and he had faith in his team’s ability to succeed, but once they left that house they would not be coming back. It would just wait, empty and stripped bare, for the next agents in need of shelter- and if Jemma came back, all that would be waiting for her would be dust. Leaving a note of any kind would be too dangerous. 

“We’ll find her.” May stopped by his shoulder, her voice low. He was too tired to continue to be angry with her; it was obvious even to him that he needed a keeper of some kind, at this point. “Jemma Simmons isn’t the type of woman to stay in the shadows for long.”

“I know.”

He was placating May, really. He wasn’t entirely sure that it would be fair to track her down, if she really wanted to stay hidden. “Why did I say yes?”

She was quiet for a few precious seconds, and finally took a step forward and turned to face him. “You aren’t quite the same,” she said, her expression almost blank. “You’ve always been a good man, Phil, but it used to be that you thought the ends justified the means.”

“I’ve done some pretty crazy things in the past year or two.”

“Not dumping infected cargo isn’t the same thing,” she said with meaning. “Going the extra mile to save Skye is not the same thing. The Avengers are important, yes, but would you, now, agree to lead a project that required injecting the dying with alien biomaterial?” She shook her head slightly. “Willing test subjects, yes, but the dying are often desperate, Phil. They aren’t always thinking straight.”

“No. I couldn’t do- that.” Maybe it was a shift made during his resurrection, maybe it was the knowledge of his own procedures, maybe it was Jemma’s own principles sneaking in, but he wouldn’t take the same orders now. He wished he could remember exactly why he had agreed the first time around, because he couldn’t help but hope that his reason had been in some way noble. 

“She’ll figure that out.”

She drifted away, leaving him staring at the empty house in the last minutes before leaving. Jemma was alive, at least. The black around his arm testified to that. 

It was a slim lifeline, but it was the only one he would be getting.

\- - -

She hit her breaking point eight days after leaving, when she was toweling off after a shower and spent far too much time examining his handwriting in the fogged mirror. 

“I need your phone,” she told Natasha bluntly, appearing in their hotel room after hastily pulling on her pajamas. Her shirt was on backward, she knew that much, and it felt almost as if she had pulled a sock on the wrong way around. “Right now.”

“Finally.” Natasha tossed the cell onto the adjoining bed and sauntered toward the door. “Take your time.”

She almost lost her nerve with the phone in her hands (and there was the knowledge that dialing his number would give Natasha that added edge- but then, Jemma was fairly certain by that point that Natasha had known exactly where Phil was, and hadn’t made a personal appearance for reasons of her own). She didn’t particularly like admitting when she was wrong, but she disliked missing him even more. 

He answered after three rings with a crisp, emotionless, “Coulson.”

“Phil?”

She squeaked. How embarrassing.

“ _Jemma_.”

The startled exhale and rush of emotion in his voice made her hands shake. She had to speak before he could gather his thoughts, because he would just start in on his own list of apologies and she did not deserve that, not at this point. 

“I’m fine,” she said hurriedly. “Phil, I’m so sorry. Running off like that was terrible of me and I never should have done it.” The words were barely audible, near the end. Her throat felt so constricted that she could barely hear herself. “Please forgive me.”

“Yes. Yes, Jemma, yes. Please tell me you’re safe.”

For all she knew he had been asleep when she had called, but now he was frantic and- if she knew him at all- pacing. “Safe. I’m with Natasha-”

He made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh. 

“Phil, where are _you?_ ”

“About to take care of some unfinished business.” His voice dropped into what was practically a caress. “And then I’m coming for you, sweetheart.”

That was a promise, and a heated one at that. A day before she might have felt indignant, but now the tone in his voice was almost enough to make her melt. “Natasha had an idea,” she began, curling up around a pillow on the bed. A poor substitute for a person, but that was her own fault. “Would it help, to have someone in Hydra’s labs?”

This time the noise he made was most definitely not a laugh. “Natasha is shit at giving gifts, sweetheart. Take her advice on clothing, on lingerie, on vodka, but not on apologetic grand gestures.”

She had a feeling that she had just given him a minor heart attack. “I’ll admit that part of me is interested,” she said quietly. “I want to help, Phil.”

“And the other part of you…”

“Wants to give you a hero’s welcome, the old-fashioned way.”

That was rather bold for her. She made a mental note to discuss lingerie with Natasha.

“Can we do the welcome and then discuss putting your life into danger?” he asked, sounding a bit desperate. “I would prefer if this was something we considered in person.”

“You mean that you would prefer to wear me out before giving me a hopeful puppy dog look and handcuffing me to the headboard.”

She had been joking, but judging by his sudden intake of breath he fancied the idea. “Is that on the table?” he asked hopefully. 

“Restraints might be interesting,” she said in a murmur, blushing. 

“Nat is probably recording this entire conversation.”

That was a safe bet. “I don’t want to even find a scratch on you, when we meet again.” Taking care of old business almost certainly meant something dangerous, and she suspected that it would involve going head-to-head with Garrett. “I’m quite serious about that, Phil.”

“I’ll do my best.” He took in a deep breath, the sound clear despite the somewhat shoddy connection. “I don’t know why I did it, Jemma.”

“I know.” She wasn’t entirely sure how she reconciled the knowledge of his actions before his death with the man he was now, but it had become clear to her during her many sleepless nights that she couldn’t hold a grudge over something done by a different man. Not entirely different, judging by May’s loyalty, but different enough. “And I should have stayed so that we could talk through it. I love you too much to quit over this, Phil.”

“Can you forgive me for it?”

It seemed strange to offer him forgiveness for something that had never affected her in the first place and had done him so much damage in the long run, but she understood the underlying question- could Jemma the scientist and soulmate forgive such a lapse in judgment, and the answer was simple. 

“Yes, I forgive you. I hope you forgive me, for my reaction.”

A sigh of relief, this time. “Yes. I absolutely forgive you for your completely understandable reaction.” 

She brushed a few tears off of her cheeks, feeling shaky and grateful all at once. “Good. Now you should go and take care of whatever business you have, because I’m told that make-up sex is excellent and I would like to experience it.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” He was so very good at promising so much with just his voice. Just those few words left her flushed and full of butterflies. “Will you let me speak with Natasha, sweetheart? I owe her apologies and thanks as well- and a good-natured threat to keep you safe, for good measure.”

Unsurprisingly, Natasha was waiting outside the door, lounging against the wall. She accepted the phone from Jemma with the air of someone who had been expecting just that trade-off, eventually. “Phil, you son of a bitch.”

\- - -

“Leave my mother out of this,” Phil replied with a roll of his eyes, slumping back in his chair. The relief of making up with Jemma had him feeling more relaxed than he had in days. “Nat, you know that I was just following orders.”

Something that kept getting him into trouble.

“I know. I’m still pissed off.” She chuckled dryly. “I like your soulmate, Phil. She’s sweet, but I’m betting that she can pack quite a punch when necessary.”

“Verbally, yes. We’re still working on the physical angle, though she very nearly attacked Fury before she left.”

“Wish I could have seen that.” 

A tiny part of Phil wished that he had just let Jemma fly at the other man- it wasn’t as if getting court-martialed for attacking a superior officer was a real threat, at this point- but he was glad he hadn’t given in to that urge. “Thank you for taking care of her, Nat.”

“Like I said, I like her. She has potential,” she added slyly, and he could almost see the look in her eyes as she said it. “Not much of a liar, but sometimes that’s a benefit with someone as earnest as Jemma.”

Perhaps in another universe he might have agreed with her, because she had a point. Someone like Jemma could be an excellent double agent, in the right circumstances. Sweet, honest, seemingly harmless- but as the saying went, it was always the quiet ones. 

“Don’t you dare, Nat,” he replied sternly. “Keep up that line of thought and we will be having a full-out brawl the next time we meet, and you know I fight dirty.”

“And I don’t?” she asked, amusement clear in her voice. “Don’t worry, Phil. I’m not going to ship her off to Hydra’s headquarters before you get back. It was just an idea.”

An idea that terrified him, but Nat’s word was good, at least on this. She wouldn’t be delivering Jemma into enemy hands, no matter how beneficial it might be. “Nat, if I don’t make it-”

“Hush,” she snapped, then dropped her voice. “I don’t want to hear it, Phil.”

“But-”

“But if that happens, I’ll take her to Stark and the others,” she said solemnly. “What she does after that is her business, but if she lets us we’ll keep her safe.”

That was the best fall-back plan Phil could think of. Between the Avengers and Stark’s army of lawyers, she would be as safe as anyone could be. “Thank you, Nat.”

“I take care of my own,” she said, her tone allowing no argument. “Try not to die again, Phil. It’s a tired old trick.”

The call ended at that, and he allowed himself a minute to rest and process both conversations. Going up against Garrett and Cybertek would be incredibly dangerous, with the limited force they had, but at least now he could walk into danger without fear for Jemma nagging at his mind. Some regret, yes, because there was no guarantee that he would make it back to her, but no fear.

At least he would not be leaving her encumbered with a child. 

Though having a baby with Jemma… what a lovely (if impractical, in their current circumstances) notion. 

\- - -

In retrospect, the attack on Cybertek’s compound went almost too well. Garrett taken care of- check- their little incentive operation taken down- check- Mike Peterson loosed from his handlers- check, check, check. 

Phil was on the verge of declaring the day a success when May called for him, her voice mildly disgruntled. For May, that generally indicated that she was furious. 

“You need to see this,” she said as soon as he came within sight, and grabbed his upper arm. “And if you act like an idiot, I will knock you out and let you come to your senses in the interrogation room.”

He gave her a weary look. “What is it, May?”

“Just remember your soulmark,” she said in warning, squeezing her hand, and he realized that she had not grabbed that particular arm by chance. “You don’t want to screw this up, Phil.”

He couldn’t imagine what had her in such a mood, but then he rounded the corner and stopped in shock. Audrey sat on a bed in a small room, her wrists clasped in bracelets that he recognized all too well. SHIELD technology- or maybe Hydra technology, seeing as they were intrinsically intertwined. They were intended to be a way to aid the newly gifted, used to tamp down the effects of dangerous gifts until the wielder could safely control them. 

She had her arms clasped loosely around her knees, but she looked up when she heard his footsteps, and her face immediately crumpled into a stricken look. “Phil.”

“Audrey?”

He found himself kneeling beside the bed before he realized it, his fingertips pressed lightly to the cheap blanket. “Audrey, why…?”

After a moment she extended an arm, pushing up her sleeve so that he could see the remnants of her soulmark. By all rights it should have been gray, but instead it was crimson. “I don’t know what happened,” she said softly, and the lights flickered faintly overhead. “Or how they found out.”

It took him a second to realize that the flicker had not been a coincidence. “You did that.”

She nodded, her gaze solemn.

It shouldn’t have happened. Those kinds of things just didn’t happen, even with soulmates. Power was not transferable- except, apparently, in this case. “Does it hurt?”

Audrey shrugged, the gesture unconvincing. “A little.”

He hadn’t seen her look so despairing since the early days of their relationship, when Daniels had still been an active threat and pulling her into a tight embrace had been one of the few comforts he could offer. Even that was off the table, now. “We’re going to help you,” he said instead, noting that she was shivering in the cool of the room. “You can learn to control it.”

He stood, pulling off his jacket as he did so. After a moment she uncurled herself and came to her feet, allowing him to drape the jacket over her shoulders. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

If SHIELD were still a whole entity, he would have sent her off to someone more qualified to handle her new powers. He could deal with some gifts, but gifts of her magnitude would have been better handled by one of the academies. There was no one to send her to, now. “You won’t be alone,” he promised, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leading her out of the room. “It’s going to be okay.”

May raised an eyebrow slightly as he led Audrey away. “Idiot,” she said quietly in Mandarin, perfectly aware that he could hear her. “Careful, Phil.”

\- - -

Jemma had always considered herself to be a patient person, but waiting for the all-clear after her phone call with Phil was utter fucking misery. 

Letting Natasha distract her by dragging her into a lingerie shop helped. Not a lot, but it helped. 

They met at one of Natasha’s safehouses in British Columbia, and Jemma nearly tackled Phil to the ground when he appeared at the doorway. “Hello, you handsome man,” she said as his arms wrapped tightly around her, her lips peppering his jawline with kisses. “Shoot me if I make to run off again, hmm?”

Despite his firm grip, he looked less pleased to see her than she had expected, which made her feel a sudden surge of nervousness. Perhaps he had thought on the situation further and had decided that her actions could not be forgiven after all, perhaps there had been an accident during the attack, perhaps-

“Jem,” he said quietly, and she felt his fingers brush lightly against her waist. “I know this will be a surprise, but-”

He had come with team in tow- she could see them waiting in the vehicles- but none of them had come to greet her. Jemma was unsure if that was out of annoyance with her or a disinclination to interrupt the moment. One of the doors opened, and the figure that she had mistaken for Skye slipped out into the sunlight. She met Jemma’s gaze over Phil’s shoulder, and Jemma took in everything in one quick second: Audrey’s pale face, how fragile she looked in Phil’s jacket, and her odd expression that could possibly have been strain and the aftereffects of shock. 

“Oh,” Jemma said faintly, her fingers clenching against Phil’s back. 

“I couldn’t leave her, not with her new gifts,” he murmured in her ear, and Jemma could almost see her hopes of a happy reunion dissolving into dust. “I have to teach her some control.”

That would take time. Lots of time, and plenty of gentle reassurances as struggle slowly shifted to competence. One-on-one lessons, midnight scares when nightmares made her gifts spiral out of control, quiet chats so that Phil could keep tabs on her mental state. 

_Audrey never left him_ , her mind noted quietly. _Audrey never failed him._

“Of course,” she said finally, striving to keep her voice level. “Of course.”

She pressed her face against his shoulder, masking the flustered moment as an embrace. She couldn’t fuck this up even more than she already had. “Everyone is well?” she asked, the words muffled against his shirt.

“Some bruises and cuts, but nothing major.” One of his hands brushed down her hair in a comforting gesture, but he stood stiffly. There had been a time when he would have practically wrapped himself around her. 

Natasha was standing nearby when he pulled away and Jemma caught a glimpse of the tight set of her jawline. It was barely perceptible, but there nonetheless. “I’m coming too,” she said suddenly. “Give me a minute to pack.”

“I won’t lie, we could use you.” Phil smiled slightly, fatigue evident in his expression. “We’ve got an organization to build from the ground up, and I know that you know a number of SHIELD’s secrets.”

“Fury has a plan?”

“He’s gone.”

Natasha and Jemma both gave him their undivided attention (though he had already had Jemma’s). “Not dead. Apparently he’s decided to retire,” he clarified, a wry twist to his mouth. “And Hill refused to take control.”

“Director Coulson is going to be a prick to work with, isn’t he?” Natasha asked after a moment, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. 

“You’ll be there to keep me honest,” he shot back.

Jemma kept quiet and still. There went what little time he might have left over. He would be an excellent director, she had no doubt, but this put an end to what private life they might have had. No house, no settled life, no children. 

Then again, he would be spending a large portion of his free time with another woman for the foreseeable future, a woman who had been special to him, and there were certainly accounts of a romantic soulbond turning platonic. Those accounts rarely ended well, but they existed. 

He walked back to the convoy as Jemma and Natasha gathered their things, and Jemma paused in her packing to watch as he lingered by Audrey’s side to say something. 

“I hope you’re not planning to give up the field so easily as that,” Natasha said mildly, holding out a crumpled sweater which Jemma accepted and automatically folded. “Jealously is a very human emotion; don’t beat yourself up for it.”

“I acted very badly.”

“You left on a rash impulse because you needed to pull yourself together.” Natasha shook her head. “You didn’t sell secrets to the enemy. If he can forgive you then you have to forgive yourself.”

Still, she glanced at the door, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Don’t step back,” she said after a long moment. “Stay steady.”

It was one of the most uncomfortable car rides of Jemma’s life. Audrey, who looked as if a sudden gush of wind might knock her over, kept the front passenger seat. Jemma found herself in the far back, squished between Natasha and Trip.

“Hey.” Trip greeted her easily, his smile fond and earnest. “Good to see you in one piece, Jemma.”

“You, too.” She brushed a kiss against Trip’s cheek and then tutted over a cut on his forehead. “This is the worst of it, I hope?”

“A nice bruise on my ass, but other than that…”

He and Natasha were exchanging assessing and appreciative looks. Jemma faintly regretted choosing to sit between them.

The convoy returned to the reclaimed Bus, where Audrey trailed after Phil to his office. It was understandable, Jemma thought, scrubbing her damp palms against her jeans. Trip had given her the quick version of events, and Jemma knew well enough that a nervous Audrey might accidentally short out one of the plane’s systems. If she was more comfortable with Phil (which she obviously was), then it would be safer for everyone if she stayed tucked away with him. 

That didn’t mean Jemma had to like it.

May greeted her as she always had, Fitz gave her good-natured grief, and Skye rolled her eyes and called her out for having bad girl shenanigans without her.

“With the Black Widow, no less,” Skye added. “Damn, Jemma, you don’t play around when you decide to get into trouble.”

That was funny, really, because Jemma had been in a great deal less danger than any of them during the past few days. 

They landed at the Playground shortly after midnight, and she was escorted to a small bedroom near the rear of the staff quarters. The bed was not quite queen-sized, and she spent a few amused moments trying to figure out how both she and Phil would fit on that surface. It was a good thing that they liked to cuddle, because that mattress wouldn’t give them much of a choice. 

She briefly considered changing into something provocative, but she was tired and she guessed that Phil would be even more weary. She would save the lace and silk for a different night and stick to flannel for now, especially given how cool the stone walls of the place kept the room. 

Jemma wasn’t entirely surprised that he hadn’t shown yet- there were things he had to attend to, and Audrey to settle- but waking the next morning and finding the other side of the bed untouched was a shock. 

“He fell asleep in his office,” she told herself after a moment, muttering aloud. “No need to fret.”

She dressed and went to brave the halls, resigning herself to getting lost at least once as she made a mental map of the place. Skye and Fitz were quartered nearby, she knew, but the other doors were a mystery. It was tempting to push them open one by one, but if they were all bedrooms she might accidentally disturb a sleeping teammate. 

It was as she was wandering past one of the last doors in that wing that it opened and Phil gestured her inside.

“I was hoping you would come by.” He looked a bit more relaxed, at least, but a quick glance around the room told her that it had been no accident that she had slept alone. His things were scattered neatly across the dresser, and the blanket on the bed was still rumpled. “Did you sleep well?”

She had slept cold, and it appeared that she would be for the foreseeable future. “Fine,” she replied, her throat tight. “And you?”

How polite they were being. She wanted to scream.

“I only got a few hours.” He was holding her waist loosely, brushing his thumbs against her sweater. “I didn’t get a chance to speak with you last night, but I think this might be best, for the moment.”

“Why?” she asked after a moment, lips numb. Was this base always so cold?

“Because Audrey is unstable.” Her gaze snapped up to meet his, darting away from the bed for one. “I’m worried seeing us be us might not help.”

A very logical decision, but Jemma didn’t particularly care for logic, at that moment. “For how long? It could take weeks to stabilize her- possibly months.”

“I doubt it.” He released her to turn toward his dresser, fastening the clasp of his watch. “No need to be jealous, Jemma.”

He was facing away from her, and so didn’t see the moment when she jerked slightly at the scold. She caught a glimpse of herself in the nearby mirror, taking in her white face and the black lettering peaking out over her blouse. She buttoned her cardigan to the top ( _seeing us be us_ , oh God).

“I don’t like it either,” he admitted, turning back toward her. “I’ve missed you, sweetheart.”

He finally slipped his arms around her, and she pressed himself against him, trying not to cry. “When this is all over, you and me and Vegas, hmm?” he said, tunneling his fingers through her hair. “And it will be over, Jem, someday.”

No, it wouldn’t- Audrey might stabilize, but she wouldn’t be going anywhere. Where could they send her, with SHIELD in tatters? No academy, no safe outpost. Just the odd secret base, and a limited number of people who would be willing and able to act as her handler. 

“I don’t want to do this, Phil,” she tried again, thinking of Natasha’s words. “We can be professional in the halls, but please let me stay here.”

“She’s next door; she would know.”

She would see, she would hear. Just like that Jemma was being hidden away, lest Audrey take out the entire electrical system.

“It’s not like she doesn’t know about us.”

He withdrew from her with an irritated sigh. She had taken it a step too far, obviously, but she wasn’t inclined to back down. “She nearly got me killed,” she reminded him quietly, holding her ground. “She’s seen the mark, Phil. This isn’t something you can hide.”

“It isn’t just _us_ , anymore,” he replied, frowning. “And it isn’t as if we’re just some small arm of SHIELD at this point. Fury left everything in my hands, and that would have been hard enough to deal with without an ex-girlfriend who can fry a power plant.”

Her parents had raised her to be respectful of duty, and now she hated every lesson they had ever instilled in her. “For the common good, then. Is that what I’m hearing?” She wasn’t the only one who was in pain over this. She could see the reluctance and heartache in his expression. “You shouldn’t have to carry this alone, Phil.”

“With a team like this, I’m never alone,” he said lightly, obviously purposefully missing her point. His gaze softened, one hand coming up to caress her cheek. “I love you, sweetheart.”

Her reply was not automatic. “I love you, too,” she said, the words more mournful than they had any right to be. 

And then she was in an empty hall with the door shut behind her, walking back to her little room with dragging feet. The light above her head flickered as she turned a corner.

After she closed her door, it went out entirely.


	8. make it nice, play it clean

Jemma had no intention of telling anyone about the new sleeping arrangement, but when she woke the next morning she found Natasha sitting at the foot of her bed, looking not unlike a disgruntled cat.

“What _are_ you doing here?” Natasha asked her, as if Jemma had invaded her own personal bedroom. “Phil is two halls away.”

“I know.” Jemma dragged herself into a sitting position, feeling incredibly grumpy and not in the mood to play one of Natasha’s games. “He’s pandering to Audrey’s delicate sensibilities.”

Natasha raised a brow, an expression of faint disbelief on her face. “Excuse me?”

“He thinks that she is unstable, and he wants to avoid setting her off.” Jemma crossed her arms, aware that she was pouting. “Apparently sleeping in the same bed as me might tip her over the edge.”

“How noble of him, to be so sacrificial,” Natasha replied, her voice dripping sarcasm. “I should get him a medal.”

“So I’m just supposed to… avoid them both, I guess.” Jemma examined her hands closely, desperate for a distraction. “He seems to think that she’ll stabilize and we can go back to normal, but I’m not so sure.”

Natasha shook her head, though she didn’t seem to be doing so out of disagreement. “It won’t be easy to slip back into your same rhythm after months apart. You’re on shaky enough ground as it is.”

True enough. “Is it worth it, do you think?” Jemma asked, feeling tears pricking at her eyes. “It would have been bad enough to just have him for those few hours at night, but apparently he expects me to play keep-away indefinitely and then elope when the coast is clear.”

“That’s bullshit,” Natasha replied crisply, standing and moving quickly over to Jemma’s dresser. “We’re going on the offensive.”

“‘We’?”

“You need my expertise.” Natasha pulled open the top drawer and examined the contents with a professional eye. “We’re going to pull a variation of the Lysistrata, and that is not a solo mission.”

“It isn’t?”

Natasha tossed a handful of lace into her lap before moving to the closet. “Like hell I’m going to let you hide away and pine.”

The lace was one of her new sets of underwear. While not the most scandalous of lingerie, it certainly was more risque than she usually went for. “I hope you’re not expecting me to wander around in just this,” Jemma said tartly. “This place is cold enough as it is.”

“It’s like living in a fridge,” Natasha agreed. “Let’s try this outfit.”

She scrutinized the result once Jemma emerged from the bathroom, a pleased look on her face. “Sweet, but with just a hint of cleavage.”

Jemma generally wore at least a camisole with this sweater, if not a button-down blouse. She regarded herself in the mirror with doubt. Almost half of her mark was on full view, and she had no doubt that the words and the neckline would draw the eye of just about everyone currently on base. “I don’t think we should be antagonizing her,” Jemma said, shifting uncomfortably. “Or Phil.”

“Well, I don’t think he should have kicked you out of bed to spare his ex’s feelings.”

“And if she loses control?” Jemma turned away from the mirror to meet Natasha’s eyes. “She could start an electrical fire, or destroy a vital hard-drive. She could just take out the power entirely, either here or in the Bus.”

“She could.” Natasha’s expression was grave. “I’m not saying that isn’t a possibility.”

“I won’t risk everyone’s safety so that I can get shagged on a regular basis,” Jemma replied indignantly, digging through her dresser to find a button-down. “What kind of person would that make me?”

“A happier one, but I take your point.” Natasha dropped back onto the bed, frowning at her. “I’m beginning to think that you are much too good for him. Maybe I’ll kidnap you and drop you into Steve’s lap; he knows how to treat a lady.”

“ _Nat_.”

“Or Bruce. You could pillow-talk about science.”

“Please stop.”

She changed in the bathroom, pulling the blouse on and layering the sweater over it. The writing was barely visible, now. If she buttoned one more button it would never be seen at all.

Jemma left that last button undone, and resisted the urge to change into a plainer set of underwear. She liked the way this set felt, and in all honesty she liked the idea of walking around in so conservative an outfit, knowing that underneath she wore something that would make Phil’s jaw drop. A pity he wouldn’t be seeing it.

“Other than challenge Audrey to a fight, what would you do, in my place?” she asked Natasha quietly when she re-emerged, suddenly sobered by the glimpse of plain old Jemma in the full-length mirror.

“A lot of things,” Natasha replied honestly. “But if I were nicer and sweeter, and a tad bit ruthless, I would make myself a quiet, if obvious, presence, and finagle him into a private corner whenever I had the opportunity.” She grinned wickedly. “And then I would tease him with the thought of everything he couldn’t have until he came to his senses and came crawling back.”

Jemma tilted her head to the side slightly, considering the image. “I’m a wretched flirt.”

“You’re not trying to pick up a stranger in a bar. You’re reminding him of how many pleasant nights he’s spent in your company.” Natasha raised a brow. “I’m assuming pleasant, at least. If they haven’t been pleasant then I reiterate my offer to introduce you to the unattached Avengers. You could have a harem.”

“They’ve been very pleasant,” Jemma replied, blushing. “He’ll see through it immediately.”

“Maybe.” Natasha shrugged. “But he’s obviously an idiot. I say go for it. Undo a few buttons and cozy up to him in a dark corner.”

Something about the idea made Jemma feel faintly nauseated, and after a moment she pinpointed exactly why it disturbed her. “Like we’re having an affair.”

Stolen moments, dark corners, the occasional shag in the closet- and in public he would be soothing and helping Audrey, like a husband with an ailing wife.

She buttoned the last button. “I can’t do that,” she said firmly, pulling her hair back tightly. “I won’t play the mistress when anything other than a turtleneck reveals his claim for the world to see.”

“Like Steve without the Y chromosome,” Natasha said after studying her for a long moment. “Everything Phil ever wanted, but in a pretty female package. That bastard.”

“Please don’t, Nat.” Her composure was breaking, slowly but surely. “I just want something resembling normalcy. I want him to hold me at night and I want to sigh in irritation as I pick up his socks off the bathroom floor. I just- I want her _gone_ ,” she admitted with unaccustomed ferocity. “Everything I’ve dedicated my life to has gone arse over tit. I deserve to at least keep my soulmate.”

“Then you’re going to have him,” Natasha promised her, an almost unnerving note of sincerity in her voice. “How do you feel about hypnotism?”

“ _Nat_.”

\- - -

Jemma tried to stick to her normal behaviors and schedule, but by the end of the second day she knew that doing so would be impossible. For one, Fitz kept giving her sympathetic looks and trying to coddle her with tea and biscuits. She would have preferred to have him complaining about the lab or verbally working through a problem with her, but no, he just had to fuss over her like a mother hen. 

For another, lights kept going off over her head when she was in Audrey’s vicinity, and she couldn’t imagine that it was coincidental. Maybe not _intentional_ , but definitely not a coincidence. That would have been bad enough, but Audrey’s powers did not extend to just manipulating the various light sources around the base. 

They were alone together once, just once, and it was in the kitchen shortly after lunch. Jemma put on the kettle, thinking that a cuppa always soothed her nerves, and wondering if Audrey would accept some tea as a kind of peace-offering. If they could get along, at least a little, perhaps Phil would reconsider his foolish idea.

The burners, all of them, went from stone-cold to blazing hot in a matter of seconds. Jemma, whose left hand had been resting on the lip of the stove-top as she perused the tea selection, scurried backward at the first flash of heat.

“Oh shit,” Audrey said weakly, the cup she had been holding crashing to the floor. She had a look of utter horror on her face. 

Jemma pressed her barely-singed hand against her chest, breathing raggedly. Before she could speak (though what she would say, she had no clue), Audrey dashed from the room, the overhead lights flickering in her wake. 

After that, Jemma decided it would be safer to just play least in sight.

\- - - 

The lights flickered like strobes when Audrey cried. She did that a lot, and as far as Phil could tell it was because of some volatile mix of PTSD, fear over her own lack of control, and the way the power crackled along her nerve-endings like a live-wire shock. He understood her panic, and the solution was simple enough- Audrey on one end of the compound, and all the major electrical and computer components on the other.

“We’ll make do with candle-light,” he told her with a smile, patting her hand and steeling himself against the inevitable shock. “Not a problem.”

She was eager to learn, at least. Audrey had always been a bit of a people-pleaser, and she wanted to please him now. She gained control bit by bit, but no amount of control seemed to change the fact that power equaled pain, in her case. That was hardly something he wanted for her- she didn’t deserve it in the least- but he couldn’t just step back and say ‘All right, enough’. Leaving her untrained would be to leave her dangerous, to herself and everyone around her. She would kill without meaning to, and the likelihood of Audrey herself ending up in a shallow grave was high.

Still, he was tired.

No, he was _exhausted_.

Tattered as it was, SHIELD sprawled out before him in remnants, and sifting the wheat from the chaff took time and intent study. There were devote loyalists, traitors, and the odd fence-sitter all waiting for his attention, and trying to tell them apart was often a headache in the making. There were bases to retake, and hidden bank accounts to find and drain before someone less trustworthy could gain access. There were weapon caches and inventions that had to be claimed, lest the already finicky tide turn against them.

Audrey took up most of what little time he had left, and in the few odd hours he managed to snatch for sleep he found his mind racing and his limbs jittery, until pacing up and down his bedroom or office was the only possible course of action.

Jemma would have never stood for that- she was a big believer in sleep, his soulmate- but he rarely saw her, now. She was the odd glimpse he occasionally saw out of the corner of his eye, and she was what he dreamed about when he actually did sleep, but the woman herself was scarce. She had taken him at his word, apparently, and a part of him regretted it.

A larger part of him did not. The last thing he wanted was to be alone, but he had gone from practically asymptomatic to quite the opposite in a matter of days. Strange, strange, meaningless symbols scrawled across scrap pieces of paper and even walls, the urge coming with a suddenty that was breathtaking. He himself had made the sequence of events clear on the recording- hypergraphia and the odd fit of mania, finally dipping into downright insanity and violence. His occasional fits of sleep sometimes ended with him waking at a table, symbols marring the surface. If he followed pattern he could conceivably wake up with his hands around someone’s throat, and that someone would _not_ be Jemma. That was the thought that kept him alone at night, one arm tucked over a pillow.

“Something’s going on with you,” Natasha said one afternoon, slinking into his office during one of his rare quiet hours. “Other than the obvious, I mean.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be planning a mission?” he asked, his voice bland and his attention seemingly focused on the paperwork in front of him.

“Planned. A masterpiece, if I do say so myself.” She made herself comfortable in one of the chairs, resting her feet on the edge of his desk. Anyone else he would have glared into submission, but that would be useless with Natasha. “So now I’m focusing on you.”

“What’s there to focus on?” He leaned back in his own chair, giving her an exasperated look. “I’m a tired, over-stretched man. Cut me a break, Nat.”

“Jemma would be perfectly happy to help you sleep.” She frowned at him. “Not that you would deserve the help.”

He certainly missed the nights when he could sleep without worrying about strange side-effects and how his ex might react to find him sleeping with another woman. He definitely missed the nights when Jemma had slept curled up against him, warm and breathing quietly in the dark. “She’s okay?” he asked, aware that he sounded rather wistful. “Doing well?”

“She’s lonely and sad.” Natasha’s expression bordered on sullen. “Bad behavior, Phil.”

“Audrey-”

“Is a pitiful case,” Natasha said, interrupting him. “Even I can admit that. But tip-toeing around her won’t do any damn good, in the long run. She’s an adult; she has to deal with the fact that you moved on.”

He had mentioned Jemma to Audrey, just once. The lightbulb in the corner had shattered within seconds. “I don’t think she’s ready, not yet.”

“How far are you willing to let this go? It’s been two weeks, and every time I see Jemma she looks more like a sad little kitten.” Natasha had chosen sides, and quite obviously at that. It was interesting, really, especially considering that she had known Jemma for less than a month, and him for years. “If Audrey said she would feel better sleeping in your bed, would you let her? If she said she felt more stable when you touched her, would you pull her into your lap for a cuddle?”

“No.” Their time was done. If anyone would be sleeping in his bed or sitting on his lap, it would be Jemma. “I know you think I’m an idiot, Nat, but I’m not planning on having an affair.”

“You know, I tried to convince Jem to seduce you behind the scenes.” She examined her nails with an unnatural level of interest. “And she said no, she wouldn’t, because she had no intention of playing mistress. Presumably that leaves Audrey in the role of wife.”

He froze, processing that little phrase. “That’s what she thinks?” He had barely seen her for weeks, but if she were walking the lesser-used halls and keeping odd hours to avoid seeing him with Audrey for that reason, he had more to answer for than he had thought. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“Funny how intention doesn’t always match up with perception.”

If Natasha hadn’t ended up as an assassin, she would have made an excellent (and forbidding) family matriarch. “Get out of my office, Nat.”

“Pissed off?”

“No.” He stood, pushing the paperwork into several rough piles. “I need to speak with someone, and I would appreciate if you would at least make the effort of breaking through my security before having unfettered access to this space.”

“Again,” she muttered, confirming his suspicions.

“Give me the illusion of privacy, please.”

She smirked before wandering back into the hall, and by the time he made it out the door she was gone.

Jemma was not in the main lab, as he expected, but hidden away in one of the sub-levels, hunched over a microscope. “I’m not hungry, Fitz,” she said with obvious weariness, not bothering to turn toward the door. “I hope you aren’t here to complain about the lights, again. You know nothing can be done about that.”

“She’s getting better,” he said after a moment of silence, and she nearly fell off of her stool as she spun to face him.

“Oh,” she said faintly, pushing a lock of hair away from her face. “I’m sure she is.”

In the fluorescent light she looked pale and pinched, the angles of her face sharper than he remembered. “I didn’t come here to talk about Audrey,” he said gently, extending a hand. She seemed reluctant to take it. “Can I show you something?”

It was the only thing he could do, to even try to smooth this over. “Please, sweetheart.”

\- - -

Their estrangement had gotten to a point where she half-suspected that she was hallucinating, but his hand around hers was warm and solid. “Show me what?”

Pesky soulbond, with its accompanying hormones and insistent desire that she press herself against him like an affectionate cat.

“You’ll understand when you see it,” he replied cryptically, pulling her along halls and up stairwells until they were in one of the storage rooms. He flicked on the overhead light and she stopped, mouth open.

At first she thought- well, she wasn’t sure exactly where her thoughts were heading, but her first instinct wasn’t to pair the symbols carved into the wall with _him_. It was the apprehensive look on his face that clued her in to the fact that the same hand that held hers had taken a knife to those walls.

“Hypergraphia,” she said softly, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. “How long?”

“A few weeks. Since Garrett.” He dropped her hand suddenly, as if he had just realized that the connection might have been in some way improper. “The first time was just before we came to the Playground.”

Just before fetching her, in other words. “I wish you had told me earlier.” She ran a hand through her already disordered hair, feeling overwhelmed and distinctly out of her depth. “I could have done something.”

“What could you have done?”

It wasn’t a taunt or scold, but a simple statement of fact. “I don’t know,” she admitted helplessly. “Blood tests- made sure that you got some damn sleep. I don’t know, Phil.”

She turned in place to examine the walls, which were surely the work of more than one night. “Is this the only room?”

“No.”

“How often?”

“Every five days, give or take.”

So he had experienced maybe three episodes, including the one before retrieving her, and each episode had lasted for hours, obviously. “One other room?” she asked hopefully.

“One and a half.”

That kind of obsessive behavior was certainly not a good sign. “Are you eating properly? Are you sleeping, even a little?”

He blinked, a faint expression of surprise on his face, and shrugged.

“ _Men_ ,” she muttered, suddenly furious. She grabbed his hand and began towing him out of the room, feeling more energized than she had in weeks. “A blood panel,” she said firmly, lifting one finger to indicate that she had several important points to make. “Because you are probably close to fasting, you wretched man, so I might as well take advantage of it. _Then_ I am going to feed you, and I don’t care who the hell sees us together in the kitchen. And _then_ I’m tucking you into bed.”

“Jem, I have a lot to do.”

“Fuck all that.” This sense of purpose was exhilarating. “I’m moving my things in with yours, and from now on we sleep in the same bed every night, even if I have to put you in a straitjacket.”

“I could hurt you,” he said, and the pain in his voice made her slow her steps. “You saw that video, Jemma.”

“I know.” They had stopped in the middle of one of the less-trafficked hallways. “We have got to stop making these kinds of decisions for each other, Phil.” She took a step closer, momentarily regretting that she was too short to meet his gaze without tipping her head back. “We’re both guilty of it, but I will kick you if you make another relationship-altering decision without discussing it with me.”

“I won’t be kicking you,” he replied, a small smile on his face. “I really was- am- worried about Audrey.”

Jemma certainly understood his worry (had her hand been another inch to the left on that stove…) but she was tired of arranging her life around it. “I don’t want to hide in the second-best lab,” she said bluntly. “I’m tired of sleeping by myself and having my meals at odd hours so that I won’t run into her.” He looked so incredibly guilty at that, so much so that she tugged him nearer, placing her free hand on his shoulder. “I want for us to take care of each other again.”

She could see how the responsibility weighed on him. This was not the life she would have chosen- she had been hoping for a bit more normalcy and a great deal less in the way of espionage and alien intrigue- but she would rather have him than a house and stability. “Let me take care of you for a bit, my jazz man.” She released his hand to slide her arms around his neck, rising to her tip-toes. “I’ve missed being your sweetheart.”

The light flickered overhead, and both of them looked automatically to their right. Audrey had stilled at the end of the hall, looking as if she were on her way to her bedroom.

“He needs to sleep,” Jemma said after a moment, not moving from her position.

Audrey gave them both a considering look, and the lights briefly shimmered- and then stabilized. “He needs it,” she said, her tone oddly formal.

“He’s very stubborn.”

“Very.”

When Jemma turned back to look at Phil, long seconds after Audrey had disappeared from view, he was giving her a look that managed to be both dryly amused and impressed. “Please don’t swap stories.”

She smirked, dropping back onto her heels and taking his hand again. “I think the best we can hope for is tolerance, Phil. I don’t think we’ll be braiding each other’s hair and telling embarrassing tales about you anytime soon.”

“I mean, I don’t want you to not be friends if you wanted to be friends,” he replied with a hint of fluster in his voice. “You can talk about my foibles if you want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She was mentally compiling a list of every test she wanted to run, dismissing more than half of them from mind as being overly invasive. “Have you thought about getting her a cello?”

“I did.” He shrugged helplessly when she glanced back at him. “A power surge charred the wood.”

Jemma found the image surprisingly heartbreaking. “We’ll get her another one.”

“Cellos are expensive, sweetheart.”

“Make some space in the budget, Phil.”

\- - -

After a few days of regular meals and sleep, Phil was willing to admit that he had been an idiot. He would have been embarrassed at his own mistake, but for the past few nights he had slept half on top of Jemma, his head pillowed against her breasts, and that was worth any amount of embarrassment.

He had worried about Audrey’s reaction, but the morning after his first night of dead-to-the-world slumber he had found her attacking a punching bag under May’s steady gaze, and he was forced to consider that maybe he had been an idiot about a number of things. He still wasn’t entirely positive that she was in any way stable, but she was polite to him, and cordial to Jemma, and he had a faint hope that maybe things would turn out some variation of okay.

But- he still felt the urge to write.

Jemma accompanied him when the compulsion struck three days later, sitting quietly on top of a table in the middle of one of the storage rooms as he carved into the walls for half the night. When he was more himself at the end of the session, hands aching and covered in dust, he found her watching him with a concerned look, her hands templed under her chin.

“There’s a better way,” was all she said. Then she led him back to their room, where she massaged arnica into his hands before tucking them both into bed.

He didn’t understand her words until he woke just past midnight six days later, Jemma heavy in his arms and his nerves racing with the desire to get up and put bladed point to another bare wall. One of his arms was pinned beneath her head, but for a few seconds he thought he might actually be able to slip free without disturbing her.

Then his shifting on the bed woke her, and she peeked up at him in the shadowy room. “You need to write?” she asked in a sleepy murmur, and he nodded, his hands itching with the urge.

She stretched and pulled open the drawer on her bedside table, pulling out a slim object no longer than a pencil. “Surgical marker,” she said with a yawn, switching on one of the bedside lamps. “Safe on skin. Write on me.” She dragged her t-shirt up over her head, dropping it onto the floor before rolling onto her stomach.

He hadn’t seen her naked since before the attack on Cybertek, and she was just as beautiful as he had remembered. The smooth expanse of her back waited, interrupted only by the coral-colored cotton underwear she wore. “I don’t think-”

“Don’t think.” She yawned again, relaxing into what was obviously the beginnings of a doze. “Just don’t write on my face or hands.”

For a moment he was stymied, feeling almost as if she had asked him to perform some sacrilegious act. “You’re sure?”

“Hmm-hmm.”

She was splayed loose-limbed and soft before him, and even the sight of her dulled the edge of the itch. The marker in his hand was medical grade, like she had said. Slowly he uncapped it, lying prone across the bed so that he could map across the length of her back.

Jemma hummed softly as he brushed her hair gently off of her neck, placing a kiss there before he began. Without the resistance of plaster under metal the symbols bloomed in sharp relief against her skin, the ease of the action allowing him to breathe freely and slow his hand. It was a slow and dreamy daze that kept him trapped for an unknown period of time- maybe an hour, maybe more than that- but when he blinked away the fog Jemma was on her back, still caught in slumber. Her stomach and thighs were covered in those strange lines and circles, and for a moment he almost thought he could understand them.

Then the moment passed, and with a fond, whimsical kind of feeling he inked a small heart on the upper curve of one breast before placing the marker to the side and covering her with a blanket.

“Better?” she asked, obviously still mostly asleep.

He wrapped an arm around her, feeling light and empty for the first time since the urge had come upon him. “Much.”

\- - -

Her first thought on waking was amazement at the fact that Phil was still asleep, despite the fact that it was past eight in the morning.

Her second was that it really had been much too long since they had last slept skin to skin, and she was very glad that she hadn’t tried to replace her t-shirt after he had finished his work. She had been too lazy and comfortable to do so, really- something about him using her body as a canvas had been surprisingly soothing.

“Is it late?” he muttered against her skin, eyes still closed.

“After eight isn’t the same as noon.” She brushed a hand over his hair and hid her grin when he lifted his head, the faint image of a blue heart imprinted on his cheek. “Not all your art was from outer space, I see.”

He grimaced and rubbed one hand against his cheek, looking charmingly muddled and mussed. “Is it still on my face?”

“Smeared, but still obviously a heart.” She peeked down at her breasts, finally allowing herself to smile at the sight of the upside-down image.

He sat up, his movements dragging the blanket off of her torso. He stilled as he gazed down at her, and from her odd angle she could see a version of what he saw- pale skin and slightly smeared blue lines crossing her body in intricate patterns. “This was okay?” he asked, a worried cast to his expression.

She stretched, pleased when his anxious look turned distracted. “Best night of sleep I’ve had in weeks,” she replied, not even lying. “Come into the shower with me; you can wash it off.” She paused. “Unless you need pictures…?”

“I’ve gone over the walls upstairs over and over,” he replied immediately, shaking his head. “The same pattern, Jemma. Always the same pattern.” One finger drifted lightly over her right side, where the symbols on her back intertwined with the ones on her ribcage. “I’ve seen this piece before.”

That was a relief. She would have been willing to have censored nude photographs in SHIELD’s archives, if absolutely necessary, but she wouldn’t have relished it.

He was careful as he stroked the blue ink from her skin, the washcloth and soap leaving only the ghost of a map behind. It would be entirely gone in another day, she thought, shifting her stance slightly wider so that he could rub the cloth against the blue on her inner thighs. Only to be replaced in a little less than a week.

At least he looked relaxed.

He pressed a kiss against the crease where thigh met hip, and she spoke softly, her blood running hot. “I know neither of us have really made the move.”

“Didn’t feel right, after the way I acted.”

He was still kneeling at her feet, despite the water streaming down around them. “And the way I acted?”

“Terrible people, the both of us.” He wrapped his arms around her hips, resting his head against her belly. “Ten lashes for you, my dear. Seventy for me.”

He stayed there, his eyes closed, water beading on his eyelashes.

“Phil,” she said after a long moment, waiting until he looked up at her to continue. “Make a note in your schedule. Director Coulson is getting lucky tonight.”

The grin of pure delight he gave her was a reward in and of itself. 

\- - - 

Jemma half-expected some mission to carry him away that day, but in the end she was the one who had a shock. 

Namely, Audrey appearing in her lab mid-morning, hovering hesitantly in the doorway and eyeing the flickering lights grimly. “I don’t want to ruin any of your equipment,” she said as Jemma tried to decide what to say. “So we can go somewhere else, if you like.”

She obviously caught Jemma’s instinctual look of doubt, because she shook her head quickly. “I thought you might like to take some blood.” She sounded almost apologetic. “What happened in the kitchen- that was an accident. I’m not-”

She paused again, tucking her hands hard into the pockets of her jeans. “I miss him,” she admitted quietly. “I guess I always knew that I would lose him, someday, and when I found out that he was dead I thought, ‘Well, better this way than a wedding invitation’, but…”

As irritated as Jemma could get with Phil, she understood what it was to miss him. “Why don’t you sit down,” she suggested gently, beginning to gather what she would need for a blood-draw. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Audrey shrugged, a wry smile on her face as she extended an arm. Her crimson mark gleamed against her skin. “Not all stories end well. I know that now.”

Jemma took the seat opposite her, ignoring the outstretched arm. Prepping Audrey immediately for a needle seemed almost too callous. “I don’t think your story is over quite yet.”

“True.” Audrey relaxed her arm, leaning against the table. “This part is, at least,” she continued, tipping her head toward her mark. “I suppose I can at least be glad that I no longer have to worry about my soulmate being just around the corner.”

Jemma couldn’t conceive of a world in which she had to worry about the person whose words were written across her skin. She really had been blessed, as topsy-turvy as her relationship had been with Phil thus far.

“Anything could happen, now.” A flicker of true enthusiasm appeared briefly on Audrey’s face. “I might even have a chance at Captain America,” she joked. “Imagine how Phil would react to that.” 

“He might faint.”

A brief pause followed Jemma’s words, and Audrey extended her arm again. This time, Jemma accepted the gesture, prepping her arm with quick, efficient movements. 

A shimmer of some faint electrical current ran up the needle into the body of the syringe, tingling against Jemma’s fingertips. She flicked a brief glance at Audrey, who blushed. 

“It hurts,” she said in a whisper. “Especially when I try to control it.”

That same shimmer seemed to take root in Jemma’s mind, flooding her with ideas and hypotheses in a breathless rush. “Maybe we could fix that,” she said carefully, setting the full syringe carefully aside. “The right anti-serum- or some kind of regular medication…”

“Do you think?” Audrey looked wistful. “I miss playing the cello.”

“It’s worth a try.” Jemma gave her a serious look. “I can’t guarantee anything, you know.”

“Better than nothing.” Audrey shook her head, a look of faint despair on her face. “I don’t want anything to do with this. A braver person would harness the power and try to use it for good, but I’ve never wanted to be a hero.”

“I don’t think you’re obligated to team up with the Avengers or change your entire life path. It just might be dangerous to leave, right now.” Jemma smoothed a small bandage over the pinprick. “Other branches of Hydra might have been informed about you.”

“I know. That leaves me a deadweight here.” She shrugged when Jemma gave her a surprised look. “What use am I? I’m just a musician with a frightening amount of power who is too scared to use any of it. And I distracted Phil from both his duties and his proper soulmate, which hasn’t earned any points in my favor.”

“We’ll find something for you.” She ignored the reference to Phil and herself. “Let me see what your blood has to say, and we’ll go from there.”

“Eventually I have to leave.”

Jemma had gotten a taste of just the reason why over the past few weeks. “I know.”

\- - -

There was a minor crisis in Belarus, so that by the time Phil left his office for the evening it was well past the hour when he might have expected Jemma to still be awake. He had been looking forward to spending the evening with her- it had been spurring him on all day, to be honest- but he had no intention of waking her up and coaxing her into anything. At least she would be _there_ , and sleepy Jemma was always a delight to wrap himself around.

His intention had been to sneak inside and prepare himself for bed in the dark, but light spilled through the doorway as soon as he cracked open the door. And then- well, and then there wasn’t much room for thought.

“What time do you call this, then?” Jemma asked him with a cheeky grin. She was lying on her stomach with her feet in the air, propped up on her elbows with a book in front of her. The scraps of lace and silk she was wearing could hardly be classified as underwear. 

“Late,” he managed to reply, shutting the door firmly behind him and snapping the lock into place. 

She was regarding him with a fond smile, her hair tumbling down her back over the faint blue lines still on her skin. She had chosen lingerie to match, he noticed.

“I know we talked about a hero’s welcome a few weeks back, but I’m not sure I’m feeling quite so generous tonight.” Jemma rolled onto her back, stretching leisurely. “I’m in the mood to be adored.”

“I can do that.” He sounded dazed, even to his own ears. “You look lovely.”

“Do I?”

“Words are useless.” He dropped his jacket onto a nearby chair and began to roll up his sleeves, watching as she took in a sharp breath in response. “Let me show you.”

It was afterward, as his heart-rate began to slow and he was idly tracing a fingertip over the patterns on her back, that she began to speak of things more serious that what she wanted for him to do to her. “I think we’ve come to a detente,” she murmured, head pillowed on her arms. “Audrey and I.”

His finger paused midway through tracing one circle. “I’m going to feel guilty about this for the rest of my life, aren’t I?”

“I would prefer if you didn’t.” She rolled onto her back again to look up at him, looking soft and serious all at once. “You were right to want to help her,” she said in quiet, firm tone. “She needs and deserves the help. I just don’t think you are the best person to give it to her.”

“Because of us?”

“Yes, but also because of her.” She quirked a small smile. “She’s lost everything, Phil. It doesn’t do to taunt her with the one thing she can’t have.”

He could still see his small little heart on the curve of her right breast, faint against her skin. “I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” she replied honestly. “But you’re hardly the only person in this bed to make a major mistake.” She rested her hand softly against his face, her fingertips brushing lightly against his hairline. “That’s why we come as a pair. We take care of each other.”

“I’m going to make more mistakes.” He let one hand rest on her stomach, his thumb dipping into the well of her navel. “I might do much worse than draw meaningless gibberish on you, one day.”

“I don’t expect to be perfect from this moment on. And in case you have forgotten, I’m brilliant,” she added with a smile. “The Hermione of SHIELD. If anyone can figure out a solution to your little problem, I think it may be me.”

“Your modesty is breathtaking,” he teased. “How humble you are.”

“In all seriousness, Phil.” Her expression shifted from amused to earnest. “We’re straight with each other from now on, all right? The bad and the good- no running off, no classifying upsetting news just to spare each other.”

“Deal.” He moved closer to her, sliding an arm around her waist. “Fate was very generous with me, you know. Brilliance and integrity wrapped up in one beautiful package… and you look so lovely when you blush.”

“Fate was generous with me, as well.” She tapped him lightly on the nose when he opened his mouth to argue. “Hush, Phil. You are so much more than you see.”

“I-”

“Handsome,” she interrupted. “Brave. Loyal and sweet. Shall I continue?” She stifled a yawn, curving toward him with an expression that indicated she was edging toward sleep and resisting it with every fiber of her being. “There are a lot of things I like about you, jazz man.”

He switched off the lamp and drew the covers over her, pulling them up until they were both tucked under layers of cotton and down. “Save a few, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want me getting full of myself.”

She chuckled, squirming down into the warmth of the bed. “Very well, Director Coulson.”

He didn’t particularly like the sound of his new title on her lips. Even that little bit of new distance was more than he wanted. “Please call me anything other than that.”

“All right, jazz man.” She curled against him, soft with weariness. “At least now I know what to call you, the next time I’m angry.”

 _Don’t fuck this up,_ he told himself sternly, desperately, relaxing with her in the dark. _Whatever you do, don’t fuck this up._


	9. with every change you play

She saw the signs before he even said anything. Phil came into the lab mid-afternoon, looking distracted and just off-kilter enough that Fitz had raised a brow at her in question.

“No need,” Phil said immediately when she began to shrug off her lab coat. “I don’t want to interrupt you.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, injecting a note of breezy cheerfulness into her voice. “I could use a break, and Fitz will be glad of the quiet.”

Fitz turned toward his equipment, but she caught the brief roll of his eyes as he did so.

“Seven days,” she murmured when they we safely out of sight. “That’s an improvement, hmm?”

“It is.” He rubbed his hand against his forehead with a slight wince. “I could go back to one of the storage rooms.”

“And wreck your hands again? I think not.” A headache, she judged, and likely a bad one. That and the compulsion together had managed to drag him away from his work, when he would have tried to at least wait out the day, otherwise. 

“This is better for everyone,” she said soothingly as she pulled the door shut behind them, securing the lock. “Don’t think too much on it.”

“It has to be boring for you,” he countered, his fingers tapping nervously against his legs. “Tedious, even.”

She shrugged, beginning to pull off her clothing piece by piece, placing everything neatly on the dresser. “I slept through it, last time, as you recall. It was very peaceful.”

Jemma stopped after unzipping her jeans, giving his outfit a frown. “I think you need to lose a few layers, Phil. Let me help you with that.” 

He began undressing before she could reach him, draping the items across a chair with uncharacteristic carelessness. They didn’t have dry-cleaning staff or facilities on base; they all took care of their own clothing, and Phil was normally very particular about his suits. He had already stripped down to his boxers and undershirt by the time she pulled off the last of her own clothing, and he had the marker uncapped and in his hand before she lay down across the mattress.

Straight off she knew this would not be the same as the time before. She was fully awake, for one, and very aware of the chill in the air. She flinched slightly as one of his hands settled on her lower back, cold and unexpected.

“Shit,” he muttered, snatching his hand back and sounding more like himself. “Sorry.”

She could hear him chafing his hands together, and when he touched her again she relaxed. “I’m telling Fitz to work on the heating for this place,” she said, making minute adjustments to her position as he brushed her hair to the side. “It’s a menace.”

The first brush of ink against her skin felt colder and slicker than she had expected. It was almost ticklish, and when coupled with the firm press of his other hand against her back she nearly squirmed against the blanket. It wasn’t sexual in the slightest, but her body certainly seemed to think that it was intriguing. 

Still, he was right, in a sense- it was boring. She had been too awake when they had started, and now falling asleep was next to impossible, what with the glide of ink and the feel of his warm breath against her skin. He was bent over her, this time, which couldn’t be very good for his back.

 _Maybe a massage would help_ , she thought idly, only to lose the thread of thought as he moved down to her thighs. The last time there had been nothing written below the knee, but he continued farther and farther down until he had one of her feet in his hand, writing something across sole and heel.

He covered the back of the other leg as well, and then pressed a hand gently but firmly against her hip. Obediently she rolled over, and stilled in the first position she found on her back, holding a breath.

He didn’t meet her eyes, or flick a glance at her breasts, or do anything other than place one hand firmly against her stomach as he began to map across her ribs. Phil wasn’t _there_ , not exactly, and suddenly the enormity of what she had offered herself up for struck her. She wasn’t entirely sure that she would be able to get away from him, if she decided that she wanted him to stop. 

The thought almost panicked her. She took in a deep, ragged breath, and then another as she tried to calm herself, and the hand against her stomach flexed. Not in restraint, she realized, even as the marker stilled.

Phil didn’t exactly look present, but he certainly looked more cognizant than he had even seconds before. “Jemma?”

The display of control on his part steadied her breathing, and she eased into a slightly more comfortable position. “I’m okay. Keep going.”

He did, after a long moment, but his free hand slid to curve around one hip, the gesture distinctly like a caress. 

That was the only troubling moment. He slumped back against the footboard after penning the last symbol on top of her right foot, the uncapped marker in his hand brushing against the blanket and staining it with blue.

More blue, she realized belatedly. They might have spared the sheets, this time, but the pale green comforter would never be the same. 

She sat up and stretched as he caught his breath, rolling her shoulders and neck to work out the stiffness as she glanced at the clock. Two hours had passed, give or take a few minutes. She should have timed the last session. 

“I spooked you, didn’t I?” he asked, finally capping the marker with a rough gesture. He didn’t move from his spot. “When I started on your front.”

“You just looked very distant,” she replied diplomatically, and then sighed when he gave her a meaningful look. “Yes, you spooked me, but then you made it better. No worries.”

She glanced over herself, noting that the symbols on the top of her feet were individual and unconnected. “Does that happen often?” She inclined her head toward her feet. “They’re not part of the set.”

His gaze sharpened. “No, I’ve never seen that before.”

“Take a picture.” She nodded encouragingly when he glanced up. “They’re just my feet, Phil. Take a picture.”

“Is anything else odd?” she asked once he was through. “Let’s figure this out before I smear the lines more than I already have.”

He examined her thoroughly, the crease on his forehead the only indication that he was very upset with himself. “No, everything else is normal.” He quirked a bitter grin. “ _Normal_.”

She moved to sit beside him when it became clear that he had no intention of coming any closer to her, and gently removed the marker from his hand. “Phil, please don’t back away from me now. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

“Scaring you is unacceptable, sweetheart,” came his quiet reply, his gaze focused downward and away from her. “Let me go back to my walls.”

It really was too cold to be having this conversation while wearing nothing more than ink. “Phil, come take a shower with me.” It was a gentle order, but an order nonetheless. “I know this scares you, too. Stay with me.”

For a long moment he kept his gaze averted, but when he finally lifted his head there was a trace of humor in his expression. “Well, I did make this mess. I should clean it up.” 

“That’s the spirit.”

He touched her like she was fragile, and she had no intention of putting up with that. “Now, now,” she said with a smile, backing him up against the shower wall. She didn’t like his downcast expression or the guilt that made his shoulders droop, not when she had voluntarily made herself such a central part of his compulsions. “You feel better, don’t you? Would a nap help?”

Judging by the way a certain part of his anatomy stirred as she wound her arms around his neck, a nap was not his top priority. He gave her a sheepish look. “Your bravery is irresistible, Jemma.”

From someone else the phrase could have been just a slick line, but he was too earnestly sincere in that moment for her to mistake his compliment for anything other than the truth. “But the nudity helps,” she teased.

“Nudity always helps.” He pulled her under the spray to wash away lingering soap suds, his hands stroking over her breasts and hips lightly. “You’re so very beautiful, Jemma,” he murmured in her ear, his lips brushing against the delicate skin of her earlobe. “I want you to hold an ICER, next time.”

“Quite the non-sequitur,” she replied, blinking in shock. He turned off the water with a sharp twist of one hand, leaving them staring at each other amidst the steam. “I assume you mean the next session.”

“Yes.” His expression had turned serious, and she had to admit that the mix of desire and protectiveness he was displaying was very much to her taste. “Will you promise to use it, if I scare you again?”

Saying no would just start a fight, and in any case he had a point. As much as she disliked the idea of holding a weapon against him, if the compulsion took him too deep she needed to be able to protect herself. “I promise.”

He relaxed slightly and pulled one of the waiting towels free. “That makes me feel better. Thank you.”

He was back to playing the charming seducer, after that, but the layer of protectiveness was still there. She could see it in his face even as she could feel it in the way he touched her, and when he finally rolled her beneath him and covered her body with his it was like being shielded, in the best possible sense. 

“Okay?” he asked quietly, staring down at her. 

Between the blankets and his skin she was the warmest she had been in days, and perfectly happy to be in her current position. “Better than,” she replied in an equally soft voice. “Are you okay, Phil?”

He gave her question serious consideration, more even than she had expected when he was pressed so teasingly against her mons. She held still as she waited, though a very impatient part of her wanted to buck her hips upward and whimper. 

“Okay, yes,” he said finally. “But you deserve someone who is better than just ‘okay’. You deserve someone so much more stable than I am.”

This was a terrible time to be having this conversation, not only because of her own impatience, but also because he would have been much more receptive to her reassurances after having an orgasm of his own. “Phil, I haven’t exactly been the most stable person in the world over the past few months,” she reminded him. “Even before I ran off I seem to recall being rather close to the edge, emotionally speaking.”

“First because I was an idiot, and then because Ward tried to kill you.” He was still holding himself above her, looking utterly serious and feeling so deliciously warm and solid that she tightened her thighs against his hips for fear he would move away. “I think your feelings were justified. I-”

“Have a medical issue that we will find a solution for,” she interrupted, speaking firmly. “I have plans for you, jazz man, and I’ll need a few decades of you being healthy and whole to carry them out, so don’t consign yourself to the grave quite so readily.”

He stared at her in silence for a long moment, which was broken not by him speaking, but by an involuntary moan on her part when he shifted position slightly. His expression quickly turned amused and mischievous. “And there I go, neglecting you again,” he murmured. “We can finish this conversation after I’ve made amends.”

As far as Jemma was concerned, the conversation was finished. “Yes, good plan, please-”

He was dragging his lips along the most sensitive skin on her neck, down onto her collarbone and over her mark. He was teasing her on purpose, she was sure of it. “Phil, _please_.”

“Always so polite.” He brushed his lips against hers lightly, smiling. “May you always get what you want, sweetheart.”

“Right now I want you.”

The intense and downright lustful look she received in return had her shivering in anticipation. “ _Please_ ,” she said for a third time, pressing herself closer to him. 

A magic word, truly. 

\- - -

He couldn’t sleep. Even after a tiring session of alien automatic writing and a very pleasurable interlude with his far-too-accepting soulmate, worry kept him awake. SHIELD felt as if it were crumbling ever more rapidly around him, as trusted contacts disappeared one by one and Hydra crept further into unguarded territory. His own sanity did not appear to be raveling at the edges, at least not yet, but he had to wonder if he would even spot the first signs, or if he would be able to hide them from even himself until it was too late. 

Jemma sighed softly in her sleep beside him, turning onto her side so that her cheek rested against his shoulder. He never remembered his writing sessions very clearly, but he did recall the brief look of panic in her eyes when she had turned to face him. It had been enough to ease the compulsion’s hold, but not break him from it. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would have done under its influence if she had tried to move away, but the possibilities scared the hell out of him.

No use in trying to convince her to sleep apart, again. Maybe if he hadn’t screwed up so badly that first time, he might have had a shot, but she would only see it as a betrayal at this point. 

Not that he wanted to sleep apart. Her presence kept him grounded, and she had taken keeping him healthy as her own personal mission in life. The least he could do was to keep her safe in return, but that was easier said than done. 

He tugged the blanket up over her shoulder, covering the faint blue lines that he hadn’t been able to wash away. They had to find a way to put a stop to _that_ at the very least, and as quickly as possible. Even if it weren’t a frightening experience for the pair of them, asking Jemma to lie around naked in this drafty building for hours on end would take its toll, eventually. 

When Jemma woke from her nap he did his best to play normal for her (it didn’t work, or at least not very well), and escorted her to the kitchen for a late dinner. He was the chef, out of the two of them. Jemma cooked well enough, but she tended to rely on quick carbs and sriracha sauce too often for his comfort. She made sure he ate, and he got some vegetables and actual protein into her, and he considered that an even exchange. 

Natasha was waiting in the kitchen, a book in her hands. It was late enough that everyone else had already eaten, presumably, and had possibly even retired to their quarters for the evening. “Work up an appetite?” she asked, raising a brow at Jemma’s blush. “I had to interrogate Fitz when you didn’t show up for dinner. He tried to be discrete, but he seemed to think that Phil had dragged you off for an afternoon in bed.”

True enough, in its own way. “He’s still in one piece, isn’t he?” Phil responded dryly as he pulled vegetables and chicken breasts from the fridge. “You didn’t disable my engineer, I hope.”

“May’s cookie interrogation technique is really rather genius.”

Jemma laughed quietly beside him as she began to peel the carrots. 

“He was obviously correct,” Natasha continued, eyeing them up and down. “Jemma looks the proverbial cat.”

“Nat, please.” Jemma’s hands were steady, but her blush had deepened. “We had things to discuss.”

He shot Natasha a glare over his shoulder, and she just smirked back in return. “Anyway, I stuck around in hopes of catching you.” She stretched leisurely. “I had a thought about Audrey.”

They both faced her at that. “I don’t think she’s mission-ready,” Phil said. 

“No, she isn’t.” Natasha’s expression turned serious. “I want to introduce her to Bruce.”

Jemma hummed thoughtfully beside him, considering the suggestion. Phil himself had to admit that it made a certain amount of sense. “There is some common ground there,” Jemma said slowly, leaning back against the counter. “I’ve made some progress in finding some kind of medication for her, but I think his input might be very valuable.”

“Would he be willing to come here?” Phil asked doubtfully. “I can only imagine Tony’s fury if she accidentally fried Jarvis.”

“I have a safehouse that would work.” Natasha gave the room a meaningful look. “It’s private, and a hell of a lot more welcoming than this place, Phil. Being somewhere warm and friendly might steady her more than anything, and it would certainly make Bruce feel calmer. I can act as chaperone.”

He exchanged a glance with Jemma, who nodded slightly. “If Audrey agrees, then yes.” He gave Natasha a chiding look when she frowned. “I’m not just going to ship her off against her will, Nat. We’ll sit down with her together and discuss the pros and cons, and then let her make up her mind.”

Jemma gave him a small, approving smile, which was a weight off of his shoulders. They seemed to be getting along fairly well, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think that she and Audrey would ever be the best of friends. “I’m with Phil,” she said firmly, and Natasha nodded. 

“Tomorrow, then. I’ll leave you lovebirds alone.” She winked, a grin appearing on her face as she slipped out of the room. 

“It would be good for her, I think,” Jemma said quietly, and he caught her quick glance toward him, as if she were afraid he might change his mind. “Everything I’ve heard about Dr. Banner indicates that he is calm and steady, and- understanding.”

If any of the Avengers would understand, it would be Bruce. Steve’s enhancements had never given him reason to fear his own body, but Bruce would understand what it was to be afraid of what lurked within one’s own skin. “I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Phil admitted, and she gave him a surprised look. “From the first moment I saw her at Cybertek, I lost my mind, at least a little bit. I should have given her into May’s care, or thought of Bruce earlier.”

“I don’t think she would have responded well to either of them, in the beginning. You grounded her. Now she’s ready to move on.” Jemma set aside the small knife she held, a neat pile of carrot slices on the cutting board in front of her. “You can’t change the decision you made, love. You can only work with it.”

His hands were covered in raw chicken germs, otherwise he would have kissed her. “I’m glad you’re here to keep me on track.”

She smiled at him, vibrant and nearly glowing with pleasure, his words disappearing under the neckline of her shirt to tangle with the symbols that curved up and over her shoulders. She was covered in faded blue lines and crisp black under her clothes, and she still smiled at him as if they were a perfectly normal couple with a house and a dog. He nearly proposed marriage on the spot, for roughly the fourth time, but bad things seemed to happen whenever he brought up the topic, so he kept his mouth shut. 

“I’ll always be here,” she promised, the words so sincere his breath caught in his throat. She moved behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest and resting her head against his back. “We’re going to be okay.”

\- - -

Audrey leapt for the chance to leave quicker even than Jemma had expected. She did seem wary to be alone in Natasha’s company for an extended period of time, but Jemma thought that was more a sign of Audrey’s natural common sense than anything else. 

“I think this will be good for everyone,” Audrey said once they were in the lab, sounding more cheerful than she had in all the time Jemma had known her. “A fresh start in a place with actual central heating. My standards are now low enough that it sounds like paradise.”

It sounded a little bit like paradise to Jemma, too. “Dr. Banner is supposed to be a very gentle man. And he’s brilliant.” She placed a small box on the table between them and opened the lid.

Audrey took a look at the bracelets in the box, her smile disappearing. She didn’t talk often about the ones she had been wearing when she left Cybertek, but from Fitz’s examination Jemma knew that they had been modified from standard SHIELD issue into something rather more sinister. They had dampened power, yes, but had also acted along the same lines as a shock collar.

“Fitz developed these,” she said quickly, spotting the way Audrey’s jaw tightened. “I’m still working on a serum, but the power is intertwined so deeply with your DNA that I want to make sure it is completely safe before you receive a dose. These won’t dull your power, but they will help you channel it. Maybe a little help will make it less painful.”

Audrey’s gaze turned thoughtful, and after a moment she reached out and picked up one of the bracelets. “They’re very pretty,” she said, turning it around in her hands. It was slim and made to be close-fitting, and no one looking at it would suspect that it was anything other than a well-made piece of jewelry.

“Fitz does have an artistic side… though I had to stop him from inscribing something in Elvish.”

“‘One ring to rule them all’?” Audrey guessed, quirking a small smile. “Appropriate, perhaps, but not something I would want to live with.” She clasped the bracelet she held around one wrist, and then reached for the other. “You take such good care of him,” she said quietly, and it was clear that she was not referring to Fitz. “Which is good. He seems a bit… fragile.”

“He really did take a bad blow, in New York,” Jemma replied, choosing her words carefully. “The treatment he received afterward was rather radical. He’s going to be fine, he just… needs some extra care.”

“How radical is radical?” Audrey asked, looking too perceptive for Jemma’s comfort.

“Very.”

“You didn’t meet before then, I take it?”

Jemma shook her head, remembering her well-meaning lie. “No. If I had known him then, and had known his course of treatment, I would have- well, I would have objected. We met months after the fact.”

Audrey nodded slowly, putting on the second bracelet. She reached out and placed a fingertip gently on a small metal tray, the shock she released a barely visible glint, and then pulled her hand away. “It is better. Thank you.”

“Thank Fitz.”

“I will.” Audrey sat back in her chair, looking a bit uncomfortable. “It’s not really my place to thank you for taking care of Phil, but I am still… fond… of him, and I’m very glad that he is paired with someone like you.” 

“Thank you.” There really wasn’t much else Jemma _could_ say to something like that. “Be kind to yourself,” she said suddenly, the words spilling out in an awkward rush. “Please.”

The smile she received in return was small and sad. “I’ll try.”

\- - -

“Take a look at this.”

Jemma accepted the tablet from him, the cuffs of one of his sweaters loose around her knuckles. He slipped an arm around her back as she read through the file, cuddling her closer in their nest of blankets. 

It was one of their rare quiet nights, when no emergency loomed and the itch of the compulsion was at least a few days away. If this latest bit of information hadn’t been quite so interesting, he would have kept it to the side until morning. Jemma deserved to be romanced, and he wasn’t able to devote half as much time to her as he would like. 

“It’s the same symbol you drew on my feet,” she said with a quiet, surprised exhale of breath. The painting on the screen could have been straight from the brush of a renaissance master, but there, in the corner, that odd sigil that had looped almost across her toes. “And you’ve never seen it anywhere else?”

“Just on you.”

She nodded slightly, her gaze trained downward at the image. “Are we going to steal it?” she asked suddenly, her head coming up to look directly at him. She looked too soft and vulnerable to be discussing art theft, but the set of her mouth was serious. “To- to see.”

He had already considered the notion. Fancy party, high security, a definite risk of injury. “I was thinking of taking May. We’ve played soulmates before.”

He knew even before the words were fully out of his mouth that he had said exactly the _wrong_ thing, and her stubborn expression proved it. “Is that so?”

“People pay less attention to a safely bonded couple,” he replied, the words practically verbatim from the SHIELD handbook. There was a reason that the operatives’ academy had an entire course on faking a soulbond. “Sometimes the mission specs call for boring and normal.”

She smiled slightly at that. “May, boring and normal?”

“Are you implying I’m boring, sweetheart?” he shot back, intentionally dropping his voice an octave and infusing some heat into the words. As he had expected (but still thrilled at), her pupils dilated in response. 

“Only when you try to be.” It was clear she was intent on arguing her point, whatever that might be, but the way her tongue darted out to lick her lips told him that he had managed to distract her, at least a bit. “I’ll go with you.”

“No.”

“No?” She frowned, lowering the tablet to her lap. “Why?”

“Too dangerous. Too many guards, too many guns.” 

“And May is closer to your age,” she said shrewdly. “I would draw too much attention.”

And distract him, in his efforts to keep her safe. “I’m sorry.”

She looked disappointed, but she nodded. “Very well.” 

Jemma still looked too uneasy, as if she had a question she wanted to ask but didn’t dare utter it. “What is it, sweetheart?” he asked softly, taking one of her hands in his. “Please tell me.”

“It’s silly.” She chuckled nervously, clutching tightly at his fingers. “Are you going to- well, I’ve heard of operatives faking the mark before.”

“Standard practice.” Not an approved practice by the world at large, but standard in the field. Temporary tattoos for the short missions, the rare permanent inked version for long-term deep cover, both only used when a more visible mark might be useful. “I don’t think anyone actually likes doing it. I never did.” 

She wedged herself more firmly under his arm, and he could tell by her silence that she was waiting for him to continue. “It’s one of the first things they cover, in academy. So many recruits go in there thinking their marks are sacred and personal- untouchable.”

“They are,” she interjected softly, and he leaned his head against hers. 

“I know. Or I know now- I didn’t then. I was unmarked that first year, when everyone went through the course. It didn’t bother me quite as much when they slapped on that fake mark on day one.”

 _Pick a flavor_ , it had read, as if he was fated to meet his match at an ice-cream shop. They had lost a handful of recruits over that requirement alone, mostly ones who had already met and tightly bonded with their other halves. Others had left as the requirements had gone from the faux mark, to being paired with another student, to having those pairings dissolved and another name issued. By the end of the course it had been second nature for the students remaining to slip into a facsimile of a bond with nearly anyone on campus within a handful of seconds.

In retrospect, Phil thought those early deserters had been very brave. He didn’t think that he would be able to go through a similar course now, when every instinct pulled him into closer orbit around Jemma. 

“Yours is the only mark I want.”

She peeked up at him at that. “It was just a warning.”

“Hardly.” He slid further down against the pillows, pulling her with him until they were curled up together under the blankets. “Those were the first words I ever heard you speak, and they are very precious to me.”

She tilted her head just enough to kiss him, her hands clenching the fabric of his t-shirt tightly, in stark contrast to the delicate brush of her lips against his. “You’re right,” she said after they parted, still keeping her grip on him. “May is the right choice for this mission.”

“I intend to take you to a fancy party, eventually, but we won’t have to worry about running for our lives.” He smirked at her, slipping one hand under the covers long enough to fish out the tablet and toss it to the end of the bed. “I might chase you around the bedroom, afterward, but there will be no actual danger involved.”

She looked almost amused, now. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from the man who backs me up against a wall every time I sport even the slightest hint of cleavage.”

“Only in private.”

“Though I think you actually considered doing it during a briefing, once.” She was finally smiling again. “You had this look in your eyes.”

“If we’re talking about the same sweater, I nearly hauled you up on top of the holotable.” Soft pink cashmere that hugged every curve- one of his favorites, on her. “I don’t know how to work the damn thing, anyway. Might as well get some use out of it.”

“I could teach you.” Her small hands released his shirt to creep under the fabric, cool against his skin. “You would pick up the basics very quickly, I’m sure.”

“I can’t even find the on button, Jemma.”

She pulled him in for another kiss, stroking her fingers lightly along his chest. “What was your favorite?” she asked curiously, one hand drifting up and down his side. “Of your fake marks, I mean.”

“The first one May ever picked for me,” he admitted. “‘Stop blocking the screen, jackass’.”

She giggled at that, which was exactly the reaction he had been hoping for. “We won’t fake a mark, not this time,” he assured her. “Never again, if I can get away with it.” 

“Thank you.” She squirmed under the blankets suddenly, finding her way under his layers easily and swiftly. 

“Can you breathe under there?” he asked with a slight gasp, feeling a bit light-headed as her lips brushed against a nipple and her hands pushed down his boxers. “Asphyxiation isn’t sexy.”

“Thank you for your concern,” she replied cheerfully, her words muffled. “You smell lovely. Have I ever told you that? Makes me weak at the knees, I swear.”

“Will you please come out so that I can kiss you?” To be followed quickly by stripping off her layers and rendering her breathless in a far more pleasant manner.

“In a minute. I’m reminding you why my mark is the best one.” She nipped at his side, her intentions clear. “Pay attention; I want you to remember this.”

He wasn’t likely to forget, not when she was paying him such intimate attention with that clever mouth of hers. Two could play at that game, of course, a fact he reminded her of when he finally got a chance to tackle her back against the covers.

“Mine,” she said sleepily afterward, once they were spooned up together in the dark. “Don’t forget.”

He tightened his arm around her, nuzzling his nose against her hair. _Mine._ “Yours.” 

\- - -

A relatively simple op, as these things went- get in, schmooze and mingle, grab the painting, get out.

The first two parts went well enough, though May’s version of society dame seemed to unnerve everyone on the other end of the comms (“Is she… laughing?” Skye asked at one point, fear evident in her voice). The band was excellent, and May was a good dancer, technically speaking, though Phil found himself thinking that it would be much more enjoyable to walk Jemma through the steps.

“Don’t get distracted,” May said in an amused murmur. “You can teach her the tango later.”

It was when they were able to snatch the painting with little fuss that Phil began to think that maybe, just maybe, this was going off a little too well. “Anything on your end?” he asked quietly, following May to the extraction point. “Jemma, Skye, report.”

“I’m good, AC,” came Skye’s immediate response, followed quickly by Jemma. “Everything’s fine,” she said, though her voice sounded too formal for his comfort.

May seemed to sense the same, because she picked up the pace as they made their way toward Jemma’s location. Phil couldn’t help but imagine the worst- Jemma with a gun to her head, held hostage by some security goon- but when they arrived she gave them a quick smile and abandoned the driver’s seat so that May could take over.

“No problems?” Phil asked her in relief, pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

“Very quiet,” she assured him, but she looked distracted and tense. Not too surprising, given how uncomfortable she had been with the op to begin with. She settled slightly as he ran a hand over her hair, relaxing into his side, but he sensed that there was something still bothering her, most likely something that shouldn’t be discussed until they were alone. 

He intended to discuss it with her that night, but calls with agents in other safehouses kept him in his office until late, and by the time he made it to their bedroom she was already asleep on her side of the bed. The conversation would keep, he was sure- if it was truly important, she would have pulled him aside at the first possible opportunity or followed him to his office.

Curled up behind her, he tried to relax, but whatever was off nagged at his mind. Something he couldn’t pinpoint, as if she were at odds with her own skin. Maybe she was feeling unwell? A bug of some sort, or perhaps her period had started a few days early. The latter was a possibility, and he made a mental note to offer her a back massage the next day.

Her hair smelled different.

 _You are being ridiculous_ , he told himself sternly, and willed himself to sleep.

It didn’t work.

\- - -

There had been no warning. One moment she had been safe and secure in her surveillance spot, and the next the doors to the van had opened and she had been dragged out into the crisp night air, a cloth clamped firmly over her mouth and nose when she had begun to shriek. The next thing she knew she was in what appeared to be a hotel room, groggy and tied to a chair. 

“Not who I expected to snag,” the man said, and glanced at the woman beside him. “Impersonating her will be more difficult than the hacker. Are you up for the task?”

“I’m happy to comply,” she replied immediately.

“Just try and stay out of the lab.” He smirked, giving Jemma a slow once-over. “And don’t get too creative in the bedroom. She looks like she would blush at anything other than missionary.”

At first Jemma wasn’t entirely sure she was following their line of thought (other than to be quietly indignant at the implication that she was boring in bed), but then it clicked- a veil. And an advanced one, at that, because the woman in front of her swiftly turned from a stranger to her own mirror image. Jemma had a brief hope that it would just be her face that had been replicated, but as the woman began to strip it became clear that the hair they had jerked from Jemma’s head had given them enough information to transform her into a veritable physical clone, mark and all. 

Her muscles were still too sluggish to do much damage as they stripped Jemma herself down to her skin, the man laughing as he took in Jemma’s pretty underthings. “Maybe not as boring as I thought,” he said, holding Jemma’s wrists in an iron grip as the other woman pulled on her knickers and bra. “Did he seduce you with his experience, or was it the other way around?”

This was a different kind of terror from her time in the sinking medpod. Not only was she naked and vulnerable- something the man was quite obviously enjoying- but it was clear that her double was planning to take her place with the team. Jemma doubted that she would be able to pull off the act for an extended period of time. The team knew her too well to be taken in long-term; eventually Phil or Fitz or _someone_ would figure out that Jemma was acting in too odd a fashion to be the real thing. Phil would be key, most likely. The man who quietly and inconspicuously made sure that her favorite chocolate and a heating pad were available on her side of the bed on the first day of her period would notice any oddities in her behavior within the first twenty-four hours.

Still, those were twenty-four hours that Jemma couldn’t afford to spare, not with the intent gaze this man was giving her. Her double helped him re-secure her to the chair before disappearing out the door, and to Jemma’s horror his first move, after rolling up his sleeves and pulling on gloves, was to pull two wires free from the overhead light.

“Now that she’s gone, we’ll have plenty of time to chat,” he said smoothly, making sure she saw the spark as he briefly touched the bare wires together. “I’m sure Coulson has told you plenty of things that I would find very interesting. If you’re a good girl, I won’t have to marr too much of your pretty skin.”

She had certainly been warned about this kind of thing, in academy. Warned about torture, about rape, about all manner of ways an enemy could coerce information out of a SHIELD agent. She just hadn’t been trained to endure the worst, because scientists weren’t _supposed_ to be targets, in that way. They might be captured for their knowledge, but they were almost always thrown into a lab under guard, because an unharmed scientist was a useful scientist. 

Suddenly she was very irritated with her academy instructors. What good did warnings do, when she was sitting here naked and faced with the very real threat of intense pain? If they ever got SHIELD off the ground again, she would revamp the sci-op curriculum with a vengeance. She would be an excellent headmistress for the academy, and she had at least a hundred reasons as to why-

“Let’s start with the basics,” he said, drawing closer. “Your full name. That’s easy enough, don’t you think?”

 _Number one_ , she thought, desperate to hold onto some sense of composure. _I’m a bloody genius._

The shock he gave her, when she refused to answer, proved one thing, at least: Audrey had been holding back.


	10. fill a room with sadness

The bed was empty when he woke up, and that was… odd. Normally Jemma was still deep asleep when he made his early morning start, and nine times out of ten she would wriggle her way into the warm spot on his side of the bed while he dressed, burying herself further under the pile of blankets. 

He found her in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea and a distant expression on her face. “Feeling okay, sweetheart?” he asked, more than a little concerned. 

She blinked, focusing on him quickly. “Good morning.”

His kiss landed on the corner of her mouth, and he pulled back when she continued to hold herself still. “I’m sorry about last night.” He took the seat across from her at the table, deciding against reaching for her hands when she kept them clasped around her mug. “You looked like you wanted to talk about something, and I got distracted by reports from the outside.”

She bit her lip, her gaze shifting downward. “There is something… but I’m not one hundred percent positive.”

“Are you sick?” She did look a bit too pale, as if she had passed most of the night sleepless. “We have a few doctors in the network; I can have one here by the end of the day.”

Streiten had gone to ground near Manitoba. He wasn’t technically an ally, but he damn well owed Phil a favor.

“No, not sick.” She smiled weakly. “I think I might be pregnant.”

At first the words didn’t quite make sense, or maybe it was that they didn’t jive with Jemma’s expression. He might expect some worry, given their current circumstances, but not the faint distress now written across her face.

Then her words really struck him. _Pregnant_. He was going to be a father, and the best shelter he had to offer his pregnant soulmate and future child was this drafty concrete maze that could theoretically be invaded at any moment. He was going to be a father and he was slated to lose his mind any day now. 

“Well, I definitely have to go back to my walls, now,” he heard himself say, and she stared at him, unblinking. “Or maybe we could find a big roll of butcher paper; I know you don’t want me messing up my hands-”

“I think that would be a good idea.” She was still, so still, and even with things the way they were he was surprised that she wasn’t even a little joyful at the news. But who was he to judge? He was having a minor panic attack himself, and she couldn’t be more than a few weeks along. She had finished a period nearly three weeks beforehand, but some women experienced period-like symptoms during pregnancy, right? He could swear that he had read that, somewhere, but for all he knew he was making that up out of whole cloth.

“I’m sorry,” she said with unaccustomed meekness, and he wasn’t going to have any of _that_. She watched as he circled the table and dropped to his knees beside her, placing a hand reverently over her stomach. 

“Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart.” He could almost see how she would look as the months progressed, and hoped that he would still be sane enough to appreciate the change. “I’m going to keep you safe.”

And he would, even if that meant keeping her safe from him. He would sit Natasha and May down and tell them everything, so that they knew the signs. When his sanity began to slip, they would act as her shield. 

“I know you will.” She bent enough to brush a kiss across his forehead, her lips cool and dry. “Thank you, dear.”

\- - -

The carpet in the closet was scratchy under her bum, and the bindings around her wrists and ankles almost too tight, but at least she was alone. No live wires, no leers, no pinches and pats; just darkness and blessed silence. She wasn’t even that cold, amazingly, though her wounds burned and ached enough that it wouldn’t have mattered if she were.

She wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed- six hours? ten?- but she clung to the idea of imminent rescue. Phil _had_ to have noticed by that point, though if she wanted to be generous (hah) she could assume that he had gotten caught up in work until late, and maybe had just gone to bed next to that lying bitch who wore her face and her mark. He might not notice anything, if he were tired and she had already fallen asleep.

Still, the idea of him cozied up to her made Jemma’s blood boil. She knew that it would never go so far as sex (she had to believe that, otherwise she might vomit into her gag, and wouldn’t that be a problem), but the only person who got to cuddle with him was _her_ , dammit.

It was dark outside the windows when the man pulled her out again, though that meant nothing. A few hours had passed, or a dozen; her body clock was too skewed to make out the difference. He released her from her bindings and pushed her into the bathroom, lounging in the doorway with gun at the ready as she showered and used the toilet. She was grateful for the opportunity to clean her wounds- infection was something she dearly wanted to avoid- but the pressurized water from the showerhead stung against the burns, and he was making no attempt to hide the fact that he was staring at her breasts. 

He let her keep the towel long enough to dry off, and then it was back into bindings and the closet for her. Why he wanted her clean, she had no clue, but she didn’t particularly like the implications. 

A scuffle woke her from an uneasy doze, and the muted sound of a gun muffled by a silencer jerked her completely awake. Friend or foe, and who had won? 

She had been long enough in the dark that she winced and blinked back tears when the door opened, light spilling into the closet. Not her captor, she guessed, but definitely not Phil, who would have dropped to his knees and wrapped her in his jacket within seconds of finding her in this state.

“Simmons, you get yourself into the weirdest situations.”

The voice, dry and amused, was immediately recognizable. “It’s not like I do it on purpose,” she snapped back, her eyes still watering. “What do you want, Ward?”

“Oh, I just got word that Bakshi had captured an interesting pawn, and thought I would take a look.” He moved back from the door, and when her vision began to clear she saw that he had taken a seat on the edge of the bed. “I thought Fitz, maybe Skye. Wasn’t expecting you, though, if only because Coulson is so protective of his darling.”

The last word was spoken in a distinctly mocking tone, and she found herself very glad that he had picked the wrong endearment. “Well, now you know,” she said in as dismissive a tone as she could muster. “You can be on your way.”

“And leave you here?” He raised a brow, smirking. “With Bakshi dead in the next room? Sure, you _might_ be found by the housekeeping staff, but I think it is far more likely that his friends will come looking when he doesn’t check in on time. Only imagine how annoyed and intrigued they would be, to find him bled out on the carpet and a naked woman tied up in the closet.”

“I would have thought that you would be his friend,” she replied, mouth dry at the thought. “It’s obvious he works for Hydra.”

“Oh, he does. I’m more of a lone wolf, these days.”

“Now that Garrett’s gone.”

He stilled, at that, and she gave herself a mental slap. Brilliant. 

“My loyalties are certainly fewer,” he said, his voice smooth and deep. “And there is something I want. I think you’ll be a useful bargaining tool.”

He pulled her roughly to her feet, picking her up bodily from the floor and dropping her onto the bed in one dizzying motion. He ignored her blush as he looked her over, looking less interested by her nudity than irritated. “Where are your clothes?”

“Gone.”

He gave her a chiding glance, as if he were considering scolding her for losing them. “Obviously.”

He spent a few minutes digging through the suitcase by the bed, finally pulling out the clothing she recognized as what her double had been wearing before making off with her outfit. “How’s your hooker impersonation?” he asked her, as if that were a reasonable question. 

“Terrible.”

“For your sake, it better be passable by the time we reach the lobby.” He held up a small knife, his expression serious and hard. “I’m going to get you out of those ropes, and you are going to be very good, aren’t you? Because otherwise I’m going to tie you to the bed and call a few guys I know, and I doubt you would like that.”

Definitely not the same man who had made her laugh while floating in the middle of an ocean. “Good as gold,” she promised. His plans to use her as a bargaining chip seemed marginally safer than being left here, and at least she would be wearing clothes. 

He rolled his eyes, looking as if he doubted her word, but cut her free and dropped the pile of clothing onto her lap. “Remember, I know where all of these are,” he said, pressing one finger suddenly to a burn until she keened quietly in pain. “Don’t push your luck.”

He had only supplied her with the other woman’s shoes, slim-fitting black trousers, and camisole, and after eyeing the effect he pulled one of Bakshi’s dress shirts from the suitcase and handed it to her. “Leave it unbuttoned,” he ordered. “And shake your hair out.”

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked less like someone who had experienced a pleasurable night, and more like someone caught in the grip of a nightmare. Not quite the image he had hoped for, she guessed, but she wasn’t a good enough actress to portray ‘sexy’ when all she wanted to do was find a safe space to hide. 

He slid one finger under her chin, tilting her head up until she met his eyes. “Careful, Simmons,” he said softly. “Looking like you’re going to cry will just attract attention.”

“Can’t we go out the back?” she pled in a whisper, and he grinned. 

“Where would be the fun in that?” He slid an arm around her, tucking his hand into one of her back pockets. “Bakshi did me a favor, leaving your face all nice and pretty. We’ll get through the crowds and Coulson will get some footage that proves you’re still alive. Everyone wins.”

He handed her a pair of sunglasses, pulling her out the door and down the hall with a casual saunter, his hand still pressed against her bum. In the elevator he tugged her camisole down an inch and brushed the shirt further open until it barely clung to her shoulders, turning her toward the camera ostentatiously in the last seconds before the doors opened. 

“Is this what you’ve always been like?” she asked him in a whisper as he paraded her through the lobby, hideously aware that she was displaying more of her breasts to the public at large than she ever had before. A sharply dressed man coming from the opposite direction gandered for so long she was half-afraid he would stop Ward and ask for a price list.

He wouldn’t hand her off to just anyone, at least. The burns would be too hard to explain.

“I’m tired, Simmons,” he said, handing her into the car the valet brought around. She briefly considered hitting the locks or lunging for the wheel, but his threat had been serious. “I have something important to do,” he continued as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Don’t take it personally.”

She was hard-pressed to take it anything other than personally. “He might not bend, even for me,” she said quietly, knowing that if the stakes were high enough Phil would opt in favor of the greater good. She even agreed with the sentiment, though it was rather hard to think in those terms when faced with the alternative.

“If he says no, I can think of a few people who wouldn’t mind having a pretty biochemist on hand. I could just put a bullet into your head in front of him, but it would hurt more, knowing you’re out there somewhere doing who knows what.”

It was amazing to think that this was the same man she had once trusted with her very life. He had either been acting then or was acting now; either way, he was deceitful as the day was long.

“Will you tell me your endgame?”

He glanced at her swiftly, a small smile on his face. “Don’t look so apprehensive, Simmons.” His gaze now steady on the road ahead, he continued. “I have very noble intentions.”

\- - -

Phil wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was distracted.

Seriously distracted. Juggling nursery furniture placement with an intense desire to drag his soulmate back to bed kind of distracted, though Jemma was so quiet and uncharacteristically reserved that he kept his hands to himself and spent a few hours seriously considering whether or not he could get away with black-bagging Streiten and keeping him around until he worked some magic on Phil’s tinkered-with brain. 

He was still in the throes of his third panic attack ( _baby_ ) when Skye burst into his office, wild-eyed and flustered. 

“AC,” she whispered frantically, locking the door behind her. “You have to see this.”

 _Baby oh god._ “What, Skye?”

“ _IthinkwehavethewrongJemma_ ,” she spilled out in a rush, placing a tablet in front of him and crowding over his shoulder. “I just got this footage from the hotel near that party. It’s barely twenty minutes old.”

He briefly wondered if Skye had been dipping into some less-than-legal stress relief, but then the footage played, and he froze. Ward and Jemma- Ward and _Jemma?_ \- the former tugging at her clothing in an elevator as she cringed, a pair of sunglasses in her hands. 

“Not altered, not faked,” Skye said firmly. “And is this Jemma acting weird to you? Because the Jemma on base is acting weird, in my personal opinion.”

“She’s pregnant,” he said hoarsely, setting the footage to play again. Classic _I’m trapped in an elevator with the enemy_ Jemma. From twenty minutes ago.

“She’s pregnant?” Skye repeated in a quiet, thoughtful voice. She placed a hand on the side of his face, forcefully turning his head to look at her. “When did she tell you?”

“This morning.”

“How far along is she?”

“...a few weeks?”

Skye pursed her lips, looking disapproving. “AC- and I can’t believe I’m asking this question- are her periods regular?”

“Twenty-five off, four on.”

“Of course super-spy knows this information.” She lowered her head slightly. “On a scale of one to ten, how freaked out are you?”

“Eleven.”

“Right.” She pulled on his arm, hauling him out of his chair. “Let’s go lock her in Vault D.”

“ _Skye_.” 

“If we have the right Jemma, she’ll forgive you,” Skye said stubbornly. “Or-”

They rounded the corner at that moment, surprising Jemma as she walked quickly down the hall. For a moment Phil managed to convince himself that this was all foolishness, that Jemma was just frightened and he was panicked enough to be gullible, but then she turned to flee with the kind of reflexes and speed that Jemma had never displayed. 

She ran straight into the bullet May fired from her ICER, and even knowing that it wasn’t Jemma crumpled on the floor, Phil still winced and bolted to her side. 

“So we figured it out at the same time,” May said with a shrug, snapping a pair of handcuffs around the fake Jemma’s wrists. She pressed a finger to the underside of the other woman’s jaw, feeling around for a moment until she struck the right spot and the veil dissolved. “Look familiar?”

Vaguely. Phil was fairly certain that he had seen her around the halls of the Triskelion, a time or three. No wonder her hair had smelled wrong.

“You okay, AC?” Skye asked him quietly, and he wasn’t sure how to put into the words his feeling that a dream had shattered around him. 

“She wasn’t really pregnant,” Skye murmured, and only the brief flick of attention May gave them indicated that she had heard that bit of information. 

“I know.”

“It will be different, one day.”

“I know.”

He helped May carry their unconscious prisoner down into the vault, and then went to go wash the sheets. 

They might have only slept side by side, but even that felt like a betrayal.

\- - -

“Ready for a night on the town, Simmons?”

She looked up from the book she was reading, uneasy at his tone. The past few days had been boring, as hostage situations went. Ward had been too busy to pester her most of the time; instead he had left her locked in a bare bathroom with a book and a roll of toilet paper. The former was a rather gracious gesture, she thought. It didn’t quite make up for her nights spent curled up on a towel on the tile floor, and she had read it through twice, but it was something.

Boredom was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it was lovely to spend some time by herself, away from anyone who would grope her or add to Bakshi’s handiwork. On the other, Ward had an unerring instinct as to when she would be most receptive to a sly suggestion about her possible future, and she had been given plenty of time to think over her prospects. 

“How so?”

“We’re meeting Coulson for dinner.”

Well, _that_ certainly got her attention, and he noticed her marked increase in interest. “I’ll make him a deal. Either he accepts and you get to go home, or he declines and I figure out something else to do with you. Win-win for me, either way.”

There was a catch, here; something she wasn’t seeing. “Are you going to tell me more about this deal?”

“No.” He tossed a bag at her, and she fumbled to catch it. “Get dressed. We’re not meeting at McDonalds.”

The black silk creation she pulled out of the bag certainly would not fit in at a fast-food restaurant. He had an eye for fashion, she had to admit- or maybe he had chosen the plunging neckline specifically because it would distract the eye while covering her still-healing burns. Stockings, heels, and the strappiest of underwear completed the ensemble. She pulled on the latter with distaste, wondering where the hell it had come from and why he had chosen it for her. 

Jemma had never been a prude, not really. She certainly had a number of prim items in her wardrobe, but she had always enjoyed wearing clothing that struck the balance between classic and sexy. She was beginning to think that she might just make the switch to jeans and baggy jumpers permanently; at least then she might stop feeling as if someone always had their eyes on her breasts. 

He was waiting when she emerged, wearing a suit that was almost certainly bespoke. “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” he said smoothly, clasping a necklace around her neck before she could respond. 

“It’s lovely,” she said flatly, casting the piece of jewelry a disdainful look in a nearby mirror.

“It also contains a small explosive compound. Just in case.”

She couldn’t stop the glare she leveled at him, though it blinked out of existence when his hand wrapped heavily around her silk-covered upper arm, right where a healing wound lay. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said in a conversational manner, his hand squeezing her arm tightly. He continued as she gasped in pain, barely blinking. “It’s petty of me, I know, but it was because of you that Skye was tossed into the ocean. I’m not sure I can forgive that, Jemma.”

The pieces fell into place rapidly, even as he briefly increased the pressure to deliver another jolt of pain. “He won’t trade me for Skye,” she said desperately. She had thought weapons, money, information- but not a _person_ , and not Skye. Phil wasn’t the type to trade a life for a life, not unless one of the lives was his own.

“His loss, my financial gain.” 

His hand slid loose, gliding downward until they were standing arm in arm. “Time to go.”

\- - -

Jemma was a surprise. The fact that she was there at all, mainly, sitting demurely at the table with a glass of wine in hand and wearing a dress more daring than anything she owned. She glanced at him briefly as he slowly accepted the seat across from her, and he saw a hint of the shadows beneath her eyes, hidden under artfully applied make-up. 

His first thought was to shoot Ward and pull her out of the restaurant, mass panic be damned, but he recognized a trap when he saw one. “Are you badly hurt, Jemma?”

She gave a small shake of her head, which was not reassuring. 

“An acquaintance of mine roughed her up a bit,” Ward answered easily, looking perfectly comfortable with this little tete-a-tete. “She’ll be fine.”

She didn’t look fine. She looked fragile and scared, and every one of his instincts was screaming to get her somewhere safe and warm so that he could tend to her injuries. “What do you want, Ward?”

“Skye.”

That made Phil’s racing mind halt. Across from him Jemma dipped her head, hiding her face. “Excuse me?”

“Simmons for Skye. I’ll take care of Skye, don’t worry.” Ward glanced meaningfully at Jemma, who was avoiding their eyes. “Can’t say the same for Simmons.”

That wasn’t a bluff, and the tumble of voices coming through the comm echoed that. The man who sat beside Phil now was not the same one who had pulled Jemma from the sky or saved everyone’s lives at least twice over. A stranger stared back at him, one who had managed to intimidate Jemma into silence and wouldn’t think twice about selling her into some terrible situation for his own gain. 

“There’s a micro-explosive in the necklace,” Jemma murmured as his fingers began to itch with the urge to slam Ward’s head against the table. “It’s okay, Phil. Tell Skye to run.”

”Not a fucking chance,” Skye snarled over the comms. “I’m coming out, AC.”

“No.” He wasn’t quite sure who that had been in reply to- Jemma or Skye, maybe both- but this situation was moving much too quickly, with consequences that were far too serious. “Ward, this is ridiculous. You can’t possibly think that you’ll be walking out of here with anyone.”

“Jemma’s necklace says otherwise. Come on, Coulson. You know the safe bet here.” Ward leaned forward slightly, all too earnest for comfort. “I love Skye.” 

True enough, in Ward’s own way. 

“You love Simmons,” he continued. “Let’s part as friends. I know you’re dying to take a look at her injuries. She has more than a few; Bakshi always did enjoy playing with live wires.”

“And what, exactly, do you plan to do with Skye?” Phil asked in a careful, low voice, sliding one foot under the table under it bumped against the side of Jemma’s heels. She looked like she had already resigned herself to walking out of the restaurant with Ward, which was not a scenario that would be playing out. 

Of course, he didn’t intend to let him carry off Skye, either. 

“Reunite her with her father.”

He heard the surprised gasp in his ear that could have come from no one other than Skye, and hoped that May would keep her from charging in. Across the table even Jemma looked startled, which was proof enough that Ward had been keeping her in the dark. “Really.”

“He’s been looking for her for a very long time.” Ward’s expression was satisfied, almost beatific, and Phil had the sudden wild thought that he was gunning for potential son-in-law of the year. “I think she deserves to meet him, don’t you?”

Anyone Ward approved of was probably someone that Phil needed to add to his list of potential enemies. May’s quiet hiss of fury seeped easily over the comm. “You can’t give him Skye, Phil.”

“I’m not sure she wants to,” he said smoothly, moving one hand just enough to press a finger against Jemma’s thumb. He had gone too long without touching her. The brush of skin made him wonder how he ever could have been confused by the veiled double. 

Ward shrugged, as if he had expected this reaction, and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. The bills he tossed onto the table more than covered the bottle of wine he had ordered, and it was a signal that time had become very short. “If that’s the way you feel…”

He stood and extended a hand to Jemma, and after a long moment she placed her hand in his, casting an unreadable look back at Phil. “Could he walk out with us?” she asked quietly. “I’d like to say goodbye.”

Even with his training, casually trailing them out of the restaurant as if nothing were wrong was nearly an impossible task. Ward lingered a few feet away, conspicuously dangling what looked like a set of car keys from his hand. Phil doubted that the move was innocent; he was willing to bet a sizeable amount of money that the detonator to Jemma’s necklace was attached to the fob. 

“You know I love you, right?” she murmured, laying a cool hand on his cheek. “My sweet Phil.”

“What makes you think you’re going anywhere?” he replied, his voice calm. He hadn’t a clue how to get her out of this situation, short of dragging Skye out of the kitchen. What a lousy protector he turned out to be. “You and me, Jem. If we drive all night we can make Vegas.”

“You’re delusional.” She said it fondly, her fingertips still stroking against his skin. “You’ll take care of Skye, won’t you? And Fitz? You should speak with Streiten about- about the walls. No self-destructive pining, Phil.”

He didn’t get a chance to reply. Another voice spoke for him. “No needless martyrdom, Jemma.” 

Ward looked the most eager to hear that voice, unsurprisingly. “Skye.”

Skye simply sneered at him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. May stood a few feet behind her, tense with anger. “I’ll go, but I want that necklace off of Jemma, first.”

“I’ll disable it after we leave.” Ward moved closer to Skye, ignoring that fact that Phil and Jemma stood between them. “I might love you, Skye, but I don’t trust you.”

Jemma was still, the look in her eyes panicked and her fingers trembling slightly against his skin. He eased her backward toward the wall, out of Ward’s line of sight. “Skye,” he began, realizing that the situation was entirely out of his hands but determined to salvage it. “I don’t think-”

“Guarantee,” she snapped, jabbing a finger toward her midsection. “Your sense of nobility makes you stupid, sometimes. You can’t save everyone, AC, and while I don’t trust that jackass, I do _know_ that he won’t be killing me.”

“They are a guarantee.” The words, surprisingly, came from Ward. “I knew I would meet you, eventually.”

Well, shit. That… explained a lot. 

“I’d show you, but the first words you ever spoke to me are printed across my ass.” Ward looked almost amused. “Hardly the place or time to display them.”

Even Skye looked stunned by this revelation. “I only have one set of words,” she said slowly. “And they aren’t yours.”

“A one-way bond.” Ward held out a hand to her, the other toying with the key chain. “I belong with you, Skye.”

Skye looked like she would rather flee into the night, but she held steady. “I want that necklace off, now.”

“Five minutes.” Ward held up his hands. “In five minutes we pull over and I deactivate that necklace- provided that those three haven’t moved from this spot.”

That either meant that Ward would be watching for a tail, or that the necklace was fitted with a tracking chip. Either way, they would be staying put. 

Jemma took in a ragged breath, the sound distracting Phil from the scene playing out to either side of them. “Skye, you don’t have to do this,” she said, and Phil was astonished to find that some selfish part of him was adamant about the fact that yes, _yes_ , she _did_ have to do this, because the universe bent itself to Skye’s will in unsettling ways and she was the only person who could safely go with Ward and emerge unscathed by the experience.

He was immediately ashamed of himself. The urge to save everyone had been drilled into him ( _the only acceptable casualty rate is zero_ ), and it was in direct contradiction to that inborn desire to protect his soulmate against everyone and anything, regardless of the costs.

Still, one look at Jemma’s shaken countenance and he immediately stepped forward, drawing her into his arms with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be letting her leave. 

“Guarantee,” Skye said again, but her tone was far gentler with Jemma. She slapped her hand into Ward’s, stepping past them. “And if you don’t keep up your end of the bargain, you will regret it.”

“Five minutes,” Ward promised, and his voice rang with sincerity. “Time me.”

May took a few steps after Skye, stopping beside him as the pair slipped into the waiting car and drove away. “Phil-”

“Set a timer, May,” he said, interrupting her. Jemma was shaking against him, sobbing quietly into his collar. “Ten minutes.”

He wouldn’t be taking a risk with her life, not again, not when a traffic light or a slow driver might keep Ward from pulling over until six minutes or seven. They could wait ten minutes, and then he would find a safe place for the night so that he could examine whatever injuries were hiding under Jemma’s dress, if she would let him. He drew her back a little further, until they were all three safely in the shadows and unlikely to attract undue attention from the high-paying clientele. “You can go after her, then.”

He thought she might argue, but instead she leaned back against the wall, her eyes trained on the seconds counting down on her phone. “I’m going to stick that man’s head in a meat grinder,” she said with deadly calm. “You’ll be all right on your own?”

All right- maybe not. But safe, most likely, and the others could look after the base for one night. “I know a place we can go,” he murmured against Jemma’s hair, which was beginning to lose its fight against gravity and bobby pins. “Unless you need a doctor, sweetheart?”

“I don’t want one,” she replied, the words muffled. He had a feeling that she had chosen the words deliberately; ‘want’ was definitely different than ‘need’, especially in this case. “May should follow them.”

“No,” May said immediately, delivering the denial bluntly. “He was serious. I’ll wait until our time is up.” She glanced over at them, and Phil got the distinct impression that she was considering laying a gentle hand on Jemma’s shoulder. “I’ll catch up, Simmons. Don’t worry.”

It was an exceptionally long ten minutes. Jemma kept herself pressed up against him, though he briefly stepped away to pull off his jacket and wrap it around her shoulders. They caught a few odd looks from random passerbyes, but no one stopped to ask questions or call the police. 

When the last second was accounted for, Phil delicately took the clasp between his fingers, sliding the two ends of the necklace apart carefully and slowly. Jemma released a shuddering breath once the slight weight was no longer around her neck, rubbing the back of one hand under her eyes to dash away the glimmer of tears he saw on her cheeks. She mainly succeeded in smearing her mascara. He had a feeling he would be finding black streaks on his shirt collar when he next looked in the mirror. 

“One less thing to worry about,” he said quietly, allowing May to take the necklace from his hand. She tucked it into her pocket, and he had a feeling that if she got her hands on the detonator that same necklace would find its way around Ward’s neck. “May, stay in touch.”

She nodded briefly before slipping into the shadows, heading toward the smaller vehicle that he had driven to the restaurant. It was a bit less inconspicuous than the SUV she had been driving, and Phil didn’t mind the trade. 

“I fell apart on you. I’m sorry,” Jemma said quietly once they were on the road. She continued before he could refute her statement, the words tumbling out quickly. “I’ve had entirely too much time to think, you see, and Ward rarely touched me but he does have a way of implying things.”

So he had scared the shit out of her and driven every point home with a literal jab at a healing wound. 

Phil really hated that guy.

“I’m going to say this until you believe me.” He slipped his hand over hers on the armrest, resisting the urge to increase his speed. Being pulled over twenty minutes from the nearest safehouse wasn’t in his game plan. “It’s not your fault, darling.”

Her hand tensed under his. “Don’t call me that,” she said in a whisper.

That was another wound, right there. “It’s not your fault, Jemma.”

She curled up awkwardly in the passenger seat, resting her head on top of his hand. “What if he hurts Skye?”

If there was one thing Phil was certain of, it was that Ward would not hurt Skye- at least not intentionally. What her supposed father might do to her was another question entirely, but Phil had a feeling that Ward would be on guard in case of just such an eventuality. 

Soulmates were supposed to protect each other, after all. The drive was practically instinctual. 

“Skye’s going to be fine, sweetheart.” He had to believe in Skye, and in May. “And so are you.”

\- - -

She filched his shirt before disappearing into the bathroom for a shower, making up her mind that he wouldn’t be getting it back the next day. She didn’t care if it was all she ended up wearing on the drive to the Playground; she wouldn’t be putting on that dress again, or that lingerie. She left the whole outfit, shoes included, in the bathroom trash can. 

“Will you let me see?” he asked once she entered the bedroom. She had locked the bathroom door behind her for the duration of her shower, so relieved to have a lock that she could actually control that she didn’t quite care that she had left him on the other side of the door. She considered the request for a long moment, shifting her weight from foot to foot on the carpet, before finally moving to sit beside him on the bed and let the shirt drop from her shoulders. 

It was the burns on her inner thighs that bothered her the most. The chafing, obviously, but the location most of all. Bakshi had enjoyed inflicting those burns a bit too much. She didn’t bother saying anything cheerful about minimal scarring or how fast they were healing, because he looked far too guilty for that ploy to work. 

“Fitz reconfigured the comms,” he said, obviously still taking careful inventory of every mark. He kept his hands a half-inch or so above her skin, as if he weren’t quite sure she would welcome his touch. “They won’t be able to interrupt them again.”

Or at least not for a while, she thought. Technology wasn’t static. “I missed you.” She took one of his hands and pressed it against her knee, as a signal that he could touch her with impunity. “Was anyone hurt by my doppelganger?”

He moved closer, wrapping his arms around her, every movement careful out of obvious deference to her injuries. “No. We figured it out before she could get her hands on anyone.”

The expression on his face told her that it had been a bit more complicated than that. He looked ashamed of himself, and her breathing quickened marginally in response. “Did you- she was a very good copy,” she said awkwardly, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. “Did something happen?”

“ _No_ ,” he replied firmly. “She was asleep by the time I made it back from my office, and the next morning… well, she distracted me, but not like you would think.”

She tipped her head up to catch his expression, unsure what that was supposed to mean. “What?”

“She told me she was pregnant.” He smiled weakly at her shock. “Threw me for a loop.”

It was ingenious, really. Her double had managed to pinpoint the one thing that would completely and utterly befuddle him, while still excusing any minor oddities in her behavior. “I can see why that would disconcert you.” The heaviness in her throat and the tears beginning to form annoyed her, but this move on her double’s part was just adding insult to literal injury. “She stole that from me,” she muttered, more to herself than to him, and the way he suddenly tensed made her hurry to clarify. “I’m _not_ pregnant, Phil. But now I won’t get to see your reaction.”

She couldn’t quite put into words her feeling that his reaction to a first announcement might be different than to a second. The shock would be less the second time around, his pleasure more subdued. 

He seemed to understand everything she wasn’t able to say, anyway. “Jemma, if- when- you tell me we’re having a baby, I will be over the moon.” He was stroking one hand down her back, careful to avoid the trouble spots. “My joy is not something that woman could ever spoil.”

She let her head rest against his shoulder again, reassured by the utter sincerity in his voice. “Maybe once Hydra’s no longer breathing down our necks,” she murmured. “And SHIELD’s a verified agency again.”

Their lives would hardly be normal, but if they were just a little bit safer… someday. Maybe someday.

He pulled the shirt back around her body, buttoning the front from collar to hem once her arms were safely through the sleeves. “Can I get you anything?”

“No.” She slipped under the covers, holding out a hand to him. “Please stay with me.”

Jemma had worried that once they were alone together she would feel uncomfortable being touched by him, after spending days flinching away from first one man and then another. Her reaction ended up being quite the opposite: she curled herself around him, ignoring the itch of healing skin, and relaxed incrementally as the minutes passed until she felt warm and sleepy. He adjusted her sprawl over him once, but after that merely stroked her hair until she was on the verge of sleep. 

Actual sleep eluded her. “Skye shouldn’t have gone in my place,” she murmured against his chest, too tired to move and heavy with guilt. “I’m so sorry, Phil.”

“Shhh.” One hand settled, warm and protective, on her back. “May’s going to find her. Everyone is going to be just fine.”

“I almost asked her to go,” she admitted, feeling the words catch in her throat. There had been a split-second, there, when all she could think was _I’m going to die and it’s going to hurt oh God_ , but when she had opened her mouth all that had come out were words warning Skye away. 

A blessing, in retrospect. If she had been the one to leave with Ward, she wouldn’t have wanted a plea to be the last words they had heard. 

“Me, too.” He let his free hand rest gently against the back of her head, his fingertips stroking her hair lightly. “None of us were going to let you leave with him, sweetheart. He won’t hurt Skye.”

Wouldn’t want to, anyway. Jemma wasn’t so sure that an accident might not happen, if he grew irritated enough- and there was her father to consider. 

“It’s okay to stop thinking for a while,” he continued softly. “Go to sleep, Jemma.”

She turned her head just enough to press one ear against his chest, the palm of his hand slipping to cover the other. Dulled to the ambient sounds of the room, his heartbeat was clear and steady in her ear. He was still murmuring, soothing little sounds that she couldn’t quite make out (because she was crying, she realized belatedly, unsure when that had started), and as she listened the muffled syllables resolved into actual words. 

_I love you. You are so brave. You can sleep now, love, it’s okay._


	11. the jazzman's signifyin'

As far as Phil was concerned, the only good thing Ward had done recently was kill the brute who had laid hands on Jemma. He didn’t particularly like even giving the man that much credit, but he had to admit that Jemma wouldn’t be sleeping next to him at that very moment if Ward hadn’t interceded, or at least not in as good a shape as she was. 

He had been too long in this field of work, he thought. Even a small bruise on Jemma’s skin should have been too much and beyond the pale, and he knew from his examination the night before that she was covered with injuries. The burns, obviously (healing, he had to remind himself, grimacing as he recalled the ones near the apex of her thighs), but he could see the remnants of faded bruises and lacerations on her skin. He could blame some of the bruising on Ward, but not all. Ward was no stranger to using his fists when the situation called for it, but he had shared quarters with Jemma long enough to know that words were far more effective a weapon.

Phil thought he had a fairly good idea about what Ward had threatened her with. Pain, and he had most likely played on her disgust at being forced to work for the enemy, but rape would have been at the top of the list. He didn’t think that Ward would have actually done the deed himself- though if Skye hadn’t made her appearance when she had, he might have been angry enough- but there were no shortage of people in the world who liked unwilling women, and Phil had angered at least a few personally. 

If he had played it safer as a rookie agent, if he had aimed for a less illustrious career… he might have made fewer enemies. His name might not be on as many hit lists as it was, with her name listed right along beside. Their bond wasn’t common knowledge, so to speak, but common enough knowledge for caution. 

Then again, if he had been less of an agent, he probably would have been taken out in the first wave of the Hydra uprising. In retrospect, there were no safe choices. 

But she was here, at least, sprawled out on her stomach and snuffling lightly in her sleep. Bruises would fade and burns would heal, and the bravery and stubbornness that pulled her through everything would keep her from falling into hopelessness. He would help however she would let him, though he knew himself well enough to know that he might smother her, given too much leeway. 

She woke up an hour later, after he had managed to drag his gaze away from her long enough to pay some kind of attention to the various emails waiting on his tablet. An all-clear from Trip, a few slightly frantic lines from Fitz, a terse note from May simply saying that she had not yet caught up with the missing pair. Various communiques from agents around the world, most of which were (thankfully) relaying relatively boring news. 

“Phil?”

She spoke in a sleepy murmur, a sound he had dearly missed. He had a great fondness for sleepy Jemma, who cuddled close and warm nearly every morning, body nearly boneless with contentment. On the rare mornings she managed to keep him in bed past six she was prone to nuzzle her nose against his neck, making satisfied little sounds like a purring kitten. 

This morning her gaze sharpened as she twisted around to lay on her side, fingertips pressing lightly against his hip where he sat beside her. “Not dreaming,” she murmured, more a statement than anything. The cuffs of the shirt she was still wearing were rucked down nearly to her elbows, but he knew they would reach to her knuckles, once she straightened them, and for some reason that tiny detail made him feel more protective than he already was. 

“Not a dream, sweetheart,” he assured her, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear as he put the tablet to the side. “You’re safe.”

She seemed to consider his words for a moment before wriggling into a sitting position and tucking herself against his side. “Skye…”

“We’re going to get Skye back.” And they would, eventually, somehow. May always did get her man in one way or another, and there was no one that Phil trusted more to take on that particular mission. 

For the moment he was more worried about Jemma, who still looked shaken and who had obviously lost some weight that she hadn’t needed to lose. “You can go back to sleep,” he said in a coaxing tone. “The sun hasn’t even come up, yet.”

She shook her head, leaning heavily against him. “I didn’t tell him the Playground’s coordinates.” She frowned, letting her eyelids slip shut. “Either of them.”

How dense of him, to forget to ask so basic a question. Protocol called for a debrief, post-captivity. Technically he should have taken at least a few minutes the night before to ask what information she had parted with, under duress, but the bond hadn’t left him much room for maneuvering. It had been different in the early days, when their bond had still been new and fragile, but now his first instincts were to protect and soothe. 

She needed soothing now. Judging by how tense she felt under his arm, Jemma had said _something_ of some kind of import, and probably to Bakshi. She wasn’t trained to endure torture, and he wished that he had been the one caught out, instead. “I’m very proud of you,” he said quietly, every word true. “You’re so brave.”

She peeked up at him, a tiny smile on her face. “I gave him the coordinates to Providence. A calculated risk,” she admitted, a glimmer of humor still in her expression. “But he didn’t recognize them, so I don’t think he was in contact with Garrett…”

He rather hoped that Bakshi had managed to pass on that little bit of information before he died. Phil liked the idea of Hydra trooping into Talbot’s newest domain and being caught unawares. It was almost like a gift. “Very well done.”

Jemma dropped her gaze, wriggling more securely into his hold. “He wanted to know about you.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“And about the remaining agents and whatever other assets I knew about. The Index, primarily.” She took in an unsteady breath. “I told him about me, instead.”

It was a good tactic. Pain loosened the tongue, and sometimes it was easier to cope when the mind had something else to think about. “A life history?”

“The highlights. Eventually I got to us.” What he could see of her expression looked a little shamefaced. “I’m afraid I gave a rather dramatic retelling of every fight we’ve ever had. I thought, maybe if we seemed on the rocks he would stop thinking that you tell me every thought that passes through your head. That didn’t work very well.”

“It was a good try.” It might have helped more than she had thought; Bakshi certainly could have done much worse. “I’m not upset about that, sweetheart.”

“I did cut out the sensitive bits. Skye’s cure, and yours, and I left out Audrey entirely. I didn’t want him to think that she was another possible hostage.”

Phil doubted that any Hydra force could get near Audrey, not with Natasha and Bruce nearby. Audrey was no slouch in the self-defense department herself, these days. “I doubt I could have done better.” It certainly wouldn’t have been his first time being stripped and tortured, and better him than her. “Even if he had gotten something important out of you, I wouldn’t have been mad, Jem.”

“I would have been mad at myself,” she admitted. She wriggled closer, half in his lap, but did so in such tiny increments he wondered if she were trying to sneak the movement past him. “I still told him too much.” She took in a shaky breath, tucking her head under his chin so that he could no longer see her face. “A part of me was glad to see Ward, even if he did scare the hell out of me,” she admitted quietly. “Because he wasn’t interested in seeing me naked, not really.” 

He could hear the shame in her voice, and lingering traces of fear. He wondered how long, exactly, she had been with Bakshi before Ward showed up, and was almost afraid to ask. “Tell me what you need, hmm?” he said in a soft voice, moving her just enough so that she was curled up on his lap. “Anything.”

“Some very bulky clothing,” she said with a slight laugh. “I’m sorry, Phil.”

“Jemma, you don’t owe me your body or anything else.” She was loose and relaxed in his arms, but for all he knew that was from weariness. “If you need space-”

“ _No_.” Her quick rejoinder was reassuring in its utter firmness. “I still want you to touch me, Phil. I’m just tired of feeling as if someone is ogling me at all hours of the day.” She pulled back just enough so that he could see her face, and he could easily read the mixture of defiance and embarrassment that she was feeling. “I know you desire me, but I also know that you respect me and love me, and… and you would never touch me if I told you not to.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“I like looking at you, though,” she said quietly. “I like to see you in your suits, and I love it when you roll up your shirt-sleeves. I find you very sexy, Phil, and I’m happy that I get to look and touch.” She cast a quick glance up at him. “I know that you like to look, too.”

“I do,” he admitted, thinking of how much he appreciated her closer-fitting sweaters and the pretty lingerie she wore beneath. “But my number one priority is making you happy and comfortable, sweetheart. I would much rather have you at ease than uncomfortable, dressing just for me.”

“It’s probably just a temporary phase,” she murmured. 

Maybe, maybe not. He’d be fine with seeing her in sweatshirts for the rest of his life, as long as her smile was genuine. At least she wanted to be held; that would have been far harder to live without. “We need to find you some clothes, then.” He had seen her outfit from the night before in the trash, and had been glad to see it disposed of. “There’s probably something in the closets that would work, at least for the short term.”

“I’m going to steal your sweaters when we get back to the base.”

He didn’t have very many- suits really did make up the majority of his wardrobe, which he was rather regretting at the moment. “Are you going to smack me if I admit that I want to see you in my clothes more often?”

Seeing her in his shirt was so inspiring that it seemed almost inappropriate, considering the circumstances. The smile she gave him made him feel less like a lech. “No. Not unless you start thinking less of me for wanting that bit of comfort. I’m not weak, you know.”

“I’ve never thought that you were.” He was slowly beginning to relax himself, thanks to her smile and warm weight. “You amaze me every day with your strength, Jem.”

Her strength, her generosity, compassion, bravery, utter genius. Every molecule of her was created to render him breathless. 

She pinked with pleasure at his words. “I do like to be pretty for you, though.”

“You’re always beautiful to me, no matter what you wear. That includes over-sized SHIELD issue sweats.”

“And lab coats?”

His grin bordered on wolfish, he was fairly sure. “I really like the lab coats. Brilliant, competent, and sexy.”

She ducked her head back under his chin, but he caught a flash of her pleased expression, and one of her hands came up to stroke the skin that bordered his collar. “I may not be weak,” she murmured, “but I do love how safe you make me feel.”

He wasn’t sure he quite deserved that praise, considering how many times she had nearly slipped through his fingers, but it certainly seemed like something worth living up to. “Sleep a bit longer with me?” He ran his fingers through her hair, easing through the occasional tangle. “We have the time. I’ll make you breakfast, later, before we hit the road.”

“Powdered eggs and instant oatmeal?” she asked, sounding amused. “SHIELD is so glamorous.”

“Hey, we’re covert ops, now. Be grateful we’re not eating MREs.”

“Oh, I am.”

He eased them back onto their sides, tucking her back under the layers of blankets and the curve of his arm. “Comfortable?”

“Yes.” She snuggled up against him, breath warm against his collarbone. 

She fell asleep more quickly than he had expected, going from drowsy to limp in minutes. She had been sleep-deprived, he knew, and constantly on guard against danger, but now slept calmly against him, trusting him to keep her safe. 

The best thing to do would be to take her back to the base before rejoining May for Skye’s rescue, but he doubted that Jemma would accept that plan. She wasn’t so gravely injured that he could reasonably restrict her to the Playground; any move on his part to be too protective would just be an insult to her. 

Still… Ward was an actual threat, and Phil’s gut feeling said that Skye’s father was not an enemy to be disregarded off-hand, especially with Skye being what she was. Her father might be entirely human, but he didn’t like the odds. 

It would end up being a team effort, then. Jemma would be along with everyone else, and he would worry and fret as he tried to keep everyone alive and in one piece. 

In retrospect, he really wished that he had told Fury to go to hell when he had offered him the directorship. Screw career advancement.

Maybe May would be willing to take over. 

Though, given May’s diplomacy skills, he rather doubted it.

\- - -

Fitz flung his arms around her with total disregard for any injuries or mental scars she might have, and Jemma just sighed and patted his back. “Don’t squeeze so tightly, Fitz,” she said patiently. “Are you crying?”

“Not crying,” he protested immediately, jerking away from her and rubbing his sleeve roughly under his eyes. “Honestly, Jem. S’hay fever, or something.”

One of Phil’s hands landed lightly on her shoulder. “Okay if I go check in?” he asked quietly, and she knew that if she said no or took a step closer to him he would linger, despite the amount of work that awaited him. 

“Go.” She gave him a small smile, allowing a bit of her amusement to slip in as she took another look at his outfit. He was still wearing the same suit, but seeing as she had refused to return his shirt before they left, his jacket was buttoned over a gray t-shirt. 

She, on the other hand, was wearing oversized sweatpants, the tails of his button down sticking out from underneath her sweatshirt. The bulk of the sweatshirt helped hide her lack of a bra (because she certainly didn’t intend to fish the one Ward had provided out of the garbage), and the socks she wore were thick enough that being shoeless was only a mild irritant.

Still, she was looking forward to looking less like she had picked her clothing out of a rag bag. “I need to change. Tell me all the news,” she told Fitz encouragingly. “Did you finish your latest project?”

No, as it turned out, and he was irritated enough by his lack of progress that he didn’t even notice how quiet she was as they walked toward her quarters. The sweatpants she wore had been long enough in storage that they were unpleasantly musty, and with every step the material brushed against the wounds on her inner thighs. The skin there had always been sensitive. She was almost more irritated that Bakshi had managed to taint one of her favorite erogenous zones than she was with the actual wounds themselves. 

Distracted as he was, Fitz was obviously intent on sticking close to her, because he leaned back against the wall just outside her door. He wouldn’t be moving, she guessed, even if she locked the door and refused to leave.

She regarded her underwear drawer critically after taking a shower, frowning as she considered the contrast between the pretty pieces she had taken to wearing over the past year or so and the plain cotton underwear that she usually wore during her period. “You are being ridiculous,” she muttered, stroking a black lace pair that had once (rather memorably) brought Phil to his knees. 

“Miserable fucking bastards.” She pulled on boring white cotton with irritation, choosing a matching bra and yanking her most comfortable clothing out of the drawers. Soft, worn cords, a plain black shirt, a cardigan of Phil’s that fell to just below her hips. “They’ve made me afraid to be attractive.”

The knowledge didn’t change the fact that she was relieved to be dressed as she was. Fitz gave her a brief, non-sexual once-over when she stepped out the door, looking more confused by her ensemble than anything else. “Okay, Jem?”

“Oh, quite,” she said brightly, heading down the corridor at a fast pace. Phil would have news, probably, and she hoped it would be good, and wouldn’t exacerbate the nerves beginning to irritate her stomach. 

“Don’t you look cozy.” Natasha stepped out from around a corner, a slight smile on her face. “I hear you had an adventure.”

She slid her arm around Jemma’s waist, pulling her smoothly away from Fitz, who- surprisingly- merely rolled his eyes good-naturedly and began walking away. “I like him,” Natasha said conversationally, tugging Jemma along with her down the hall. “Interesting ideas, cute ass. If it weren’t for Clint-”

“Err-”

“But I want to talk about you.” 

Natasha had steered her into a small conference room, and at that pushed her gently into a chair. “I still don’t like it,” she said, perching on the edge of the table. “I’ve run a number of ops that required me to run around in strappy black heels and little else, and I hate it every time.”

Jemma wasn’t entirely sure how to react to that. “But-”

“But I’m the Black Widow, and they train us well, in the Red Room,” Natasha interrupted smoothly. “It wasn’t until after I defected- a long while after I defected- that I felt like my body belonged to me, again. And once that happened I drew new boundaries, though that hasn’t stopped me from getting hurt.”

“In the scheme of things, this was nothing,” Jemma said softly, staring down at her lap. It felt right to talk with Natasha, who treated her with warm compassion and the kind of understanding that made Jemma feel as if she didn’t need to say anything at all. Her sudden appearance at the Playground was not a coincidence. She had returned for Jemma, plain and simple.

“They stripped you and hurt you when you were at your most vulnerable. That is something.” Natasha nudged her knee with the toe of her shoe. “One man has already paid. The other one will, too.”

“I’ve never felt ashamed of my own body, before,” Jemma admitted quietly. “I was scared- I was so scared that they would- but they didn’t, and I’m still terrified.”

“I know. I won’t lie and tell you the fear goes away quickly, or that you’ll never be in that position again. We’ve chosen a hard path- or been thrown onto it,” Natasha amended with a slight shrug. “It’s not fair, and it’s not right, but you’re not alone.” She smiled, leaning forward to better catch Jemma’s attention. “Phil looks at you like you’re every star in the sky. He did before this, and he still does, now.”

“You were watching our arrival,” Jemma guessed, fighting a smile.

“I’ve never met a shadowy corner that I didn’t like.” Natasha hopped off the table in one smooth motion, extending a hand to pull Jemma to her feet. “If I may make a suggestion?”

“I’m not sure I could stop you, truthfully.”

“If you’re comfortable being touched, let him pamper and pet you.” Natasha’s expression was that of fond amusement. “I think it would make both of you feel better.”

“He is surprisingly tactile, for such a self-composed man.”

“Only with you.”

And that was true, really. Jemma could count on one hand the number of times he had extended a friendly touch to anyone other than her, and that included his interactions with Skye and Audrey. 

He was always touching her, though. Even in public he was prone to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder or her lower back, or to drape an arm around her shoulders and let her relax against him while sitting on one of the couches in the common room. It wasn’t just for her sake. She could always sense his need for closeness when he gravitated toward her outside of their bedroom. 

She could sense it again when they stepped into his office and his first move was to circle around his desk and into their orbit, a worried expression on his face as he listened to whoever was speaking over the cell he carried. May, she assumed, and reached out to take his free hand as he continued to listen. 

“Well?” Natasha asked once he hung up, and for a moment he just blinked at them in a kind of irritated befuddlement. 

“Would you believe that May tracked Skye to a hidden alien city?” He sounded as if he didn’t believe it himself. “A hidden. Alien. City. I am going to lose the rest of my hair over that girl, I swear.”

“We knew that her history was odd,” Jemma said slowly, keeping her grip on his hand. “So her father is…?”

“Or _something_.” He looked distinctly frazzled, and it struck her to wonder when his last episode had been. If he wasn’t due for one, it was theoretically possible that stress might cause one all by itself. “May can’t get too close.”

“You know, before Thor showed up I would have laughed in your face,” Natasha said dryly. “Speaking of Thor, I’m going to give him a call. This seems right up his alley.”

“Ask him if he knows anything about blue aliens and symbols that look like this.” Phil released her hand long enough to pull a file from his desk, thrusting it toward Natasha. She flipped it open and took a look at the first picture, which had been taken in one of the upper rooms. 

“I was wondering who had been redecorating up there,” was all she said, giving them both a meaningful look. “Was that you, Phil?”

“Tasha-”

Jemma stopped, casting a glance at Phil. 

“I thought it was,” Natasha said with a nod. “I’ll see what he has to say.”

Phil’s hands settled lightly on her shoulders as the door clicked close behind Natasha. “Don’t worry,” he said, turning her toward him. “I should have told Natasha before now. You know she’ll be careful.”

“I know.” Remembering Natasha’s words, she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him. “When was your last session?” she asked, pressing her face to the crook of his neck and inhaling his scent. “Do you need…?”

“Two days before we pulled you out. I don’t want you worrying about that, either, okay?”

He was stroking a hand over her hair, his other arm wrapped around her back. It was certainly making her feel better, at least. “The walls, again?”

“The floor.” He sounded a little amused. “Pull back the rug in our bedroom and you’ll find my scrawls all over that concrete.”

Easier on his hands, but she doubted those hours had done his knees or back any favors. “When we see Thor, will you please speak with him about it? He might have some ideas.”

“I’m dreading his disappointed expression when I explain exactly why I’m in my current state.”

“Even the son of Odin has done things he regrets, I’m sure.” She brushed her lips gently against his neck, smiling when his next exhale came out uneven. “And I won’t tell him about your earlier involvement with the trials, so you can keep mum about that, if you like.”

“I would just feel guilty. Thor has a way of inspiring utter honesty.” He briefly tightened his hold on her before stepping back, running his hands down her sides as he did so. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay here while we all run off to invade ET’s hometown?”

“All by myself? Imagine the trouble I would get into,” she responded lightly. “I will only stay if you stay, and since you won’t do that…”

The door opened, sans knock, and Natasha leaned into the room. “Thor’s on his way,” she informed them. “Two hours, give or take. Get ready, Phil, because he’s bringing everyone else with him.”

“Clint’s going to shoot me full of arrows,” Phil muttered, so softly Jemma barely heard him.

Natasha heard his comment, nonetheless, and her mouth quirked into a small smile. “I’ve already warned him about your soulmate, so I doubt it.”

“About me?” Jemma asked, confused. “Why warn him about me?”

“As I told Clint, you are the type of woman who would tackle Fury for her soulmate’s sake. The fact that Phil stopped you doesn’t make it any less true.”

“I overreacted a tad.” Jemma ran a hand through her hair, blushing. “You’ve set me up as some kind of warrior; he’s going to be disappointed.”

To her surprise both Phil and Natasha began to laugh, though Phil took one of her hands, fingers stroking her palm in a very distracting manner. “I don’t think he’s going to be disappointed at all,” he said. “I think you’re going to amaze him.”

He looked so incredibly earnest that her breath caught in her throat. To think that Jemma Simmons, the prodigy who couldn’t pass her field exams, might be able to amaze an Avenger. More than one, at that.

“When I said ‘everyone’, I meant Steve, too,” Natasha said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Still nursing a crush, Phil?”

Judging by the look on her soulmate’s face, yes. “Not going to leave me for a pair of blue eyes, are you?” she asked teasingly, rising to her toes to try and match his height. “That would be quite a loss for me.”

His tone, when he replied, was so grumpy that she couldn’t help but feel charmed. “I’m not leaving you for Steve Rogers or anyone else.” He cast Natasha a warning glance even as he took a step closer to Jemma, wrapping her in his arms again. “Thank you for calling them in, Nat,” he said, the words a clear dismissal. “I’m sure it will be a delightful experience for everyone.”

“My fanboy affections for Captain America are nothing on what I feel for you. You know that, right?” he asked after Natasha had left for a second time. 

“Oh, I know.” He was so much fun to tease, and the befuddled look on his face when she rubbed the tip of her nose against his almost made her want to do naughty things to him- and she probably would have done just that, a few weeks beforehand. Instead she pressed her mouth to his in a slow, thorough kiss that stayed just within her current comfort level. 

“I wouldn’t mind doing a bit more of that,” she said afterward, when her breathing was a bit steadier. “When was the last time we lazed about, snogging like teenagers?”

“I have no idea, but it’s at the top of my list once things settle down.” He drew her in for another kiss, one intense enough that her knees felt distinctly wobbly. “I think we’re all due for a few days of leave, don’t you? We can afford to lay low, at least for a little bit.”

“That would be nice.” Maybe a few days of quiet and relaxation would be enough to at least partially restore her equilibrium. “Maybe even somewhere warm?”

“I think I could arrange for that.” He let her go after a few seconds more, stepping away with a sigh. “Stay close, okay? You really might be all that stops Clint from throwing me against a wall.”

She smiled, taking a seat on the couch and grabbing a nearby tablet. “I need to catch up on some research, anyway.”

And she didn’t particularly care to be alone, not when she could curl up comfortably and read while he worked. 

On second thought, curling up was not an option, she realized after a few seconds. The position put too much pressure on the most sensitive of her injuries. She rearranged herself on the couch, her irritation increasing until she finally found a position that put her in the least amount of pain. _Bugger_.

\- - -

Phil had underestimated how much he would be affected by his former team’s looks of disappointment. Even Stark was managing to make him feel a twinge of guilt, which was very, very unsettling- especially since Stark had realized the effect he was having, and was determined to capitalize on it.

“You see this, Agent? This is a real, honest-to-god tear. Right here.” Tony gestured toward his face, and damn if there wasn’t something resembling a tear sliding down his cheek. “I mean, I can do it on command, but it still takes effort.”

“I hope Pepper doesn’t fall for it,” Natasha said dryly. She looked far too amused by this reunion, but Phil had expected that. 

“The first time, yes, but then she caught on.” 

Steve and Thor were still giving him disappointed expressions, though Thor’s verged almost on wounded effrontery. “Is this common, among Midgardians?” he asked Clint, who was scowling. “I had not thought the son of Coul capable of such deception.”

“I’m sure he had his reasons,” Steve said, though he sounded so disapproving Phil had to resist the urge to flinch. 

“I wasn’t given a choice, at first.” Possibly the wrong thing for Phil to say, but the truth. “Fury kept me on lockdown for months.”

Until he was sure that Phil wouldn’t go completely off his rocker, at least not immediately. A pity Phil hadn’t known that, at the time. 

“Fury’s always been an enigmatic bastard,” Clint agreed, not looking happy about it. “But the moment you had a chance-”

“What makes you think he really gave me a chance? He hemmed me in with work and sworn oaths, made sure someone kept an eye on me 24/7-”

“The Cavalry,” Natasha murmured, exchanging a significant look with Clint.

“Don’t call her that; she hates it.”

He should have been the one to say the words, but instead it was Jemma’s voice he heard, attracting the attention of all. She stood just inside the entrance to the hangar, arms crossed over her chest as she stared down the male contingent of the Avengers. Out of the corner of his eye Phil caught Natasha’s smirk.

“Is that your handwriting, Agent?” Tony gestured at the words peeking out from under Jemma’s clothing, and as if he had offered her a challenge, Jemma walked further into the room. 

“This is Phil’s soulmate, Jemma Simmons,” Natasha said in introduction, a hint of humor in her voice. “Play nice, Tony.”

“So, how do you fit into this puzzle?” he asked Jemma bluntly. “You’ve got that SHIELD look, but you’re basically pocket-sized. Unless he picked you up during a mission; some kind of damsel in distress scenario? Is that one of his sweaters?”

“I’m biochem,” she replied flatly. 

“Tiny scientist. I like that. Ever created anything I might have heard of?”

“Careful, Tony.” Natasha still looked amused, but there was a note of caution in her tone. “You’re being rude.”

Clint had gradually straightened from his slouched pose against the wall as Jemma and Tony exchanged opening sallies, his scowl disappearing as he assessed Jemma. “This is the one?” he asked Natasha, who nodded. 

“Excuse me, what am I missing?” Tony turned to Steve, who shrugged. “The one?”

“The one who tried to attack Fury with her bare hands.”

Phil was interested to note their reactions as Jemma blushed bright red. Tony looked disbelieving, while Steve carefully turned so that he was no longer presenting Jemma with his weakest angle. And Thor… Thor bowed. 

That was weird. 

“I apologize for not making the connection earlier, Lady Jemma,” he said. “Natasha did mention the incident, and has spent much time praising you for your bravery.”

“Not to me,” Tony protested.

“Or me,” Steve added, casting a glance at Natasha. “Is she one of your protegées, Nat?”

Judging by Jemma’s expression, she was regretting ever entering into the room in the first place. She sidled toward him, her body language off just enough that he wondered if the mere presence of so many unknown men hadn’t unintentionally triggered some kind of reaction. “They’re mad at me, not you,” he murmured in her ear when she reached him, keeping a close eye on Natasha and company as they bantered. “Looks like you’ve made a fan out of Thor.”

“Natasha made a fan out of Thor.” She frowned up at him. “It’s not like I could have done anything to Fury if I had made contact. I doubt I would have even bruised him.”

“I think you overestimate just how many people would willingly throw themselves at Nicholas Fury, even in the throes of anger.” Phil himself never would have, that was for sure. “If you had made contact, he probably would have stood still out of shock and let you slap him.”

“Quite the picture.”

“Okay, okay, _okay_.” Clint’s voice cut through the increasing volume of Natasha and Tony’s repartée. He held up his hands for silence. “Listen, I’m still really pissed off about this- and yes, Nat, some of that annoyance is with you _for not saying a damn thing_ after you found out- but apparently we have a rescue to put together, so can we please put this aside for the moment?”

“I agree.” Steve’s gaze skipped right over Phil (whose inner fanboy self was crushed) and moved to Natasha. “Will Bruce be joining us?”

“Bruce is otherwise engaged.”

“And what is _that_ code for?” Tony asked. “Because when you called away my science bro, the only explanation I got was something about Sarah Mclachlan commercials and sad puppies.”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Dammit, Nat.”

\- - - 

Phil had a feeling that the expression on Thor’s face, as he digested the entire sordid story, was the Asgardian version of purposefully slamming one’s head against the wall. “That was quite unwise,” he finally said with a sigh. “Though there are stories, odd stories, about the Kree and Midgard. I suppose I am not surprised that the two races have finally crossed paths.”

“So there is a city?” Jemma asked in a quiet voice. She was perched beside Phil on the edge of his desk, the room filled with both his current and former team. 

“Yes.” Thor leaned forward, propping his elbows against his knees. “They came to study- a group of healers who were interested in Midgardian flora.”

“We’re going up against a bunch of hippie herbalists?” Tony asked, raising a brow. “Really.”

Thor gave him a blank look. “What is a ‘hippie’?”

“Tony, shut the fuck up and let the man talk,” Clint said with impatience, rolling his eyes. “We can give Thor a synopsis of the 1960s later.”

“Even the most scholarly of the Kree are also fierce warriors.” Thor was back on track, now, apparently having decided that the cultural reference would keep. “Heimdall has told me of the place you seek. There was a time when it was a place of great learning, though that was before I was born. To my knowledge it has been uninhabited ever since Midgardians took to exploring the planet more thoroughly.”

“Not because they feared us, I’m guessing?” Steve asked, looking faintly amused. 

“From what I have been told, more out of annoyance.” Thor’s grin was genuine, and unexpected. “The inhabitants of the city hid it as best they could, and returned to their planet with a wealth of new knowledge.”

“Nice to know we’re the cockroaches of the universe,” Phil heard Clint mutter. 

“But…” Steve said expectantly, and after a moment Thor shrugged. 

“It is said they left some traps behind.”

“It is said?”

“It is almost certain they left some traps behind.” Thor pulled a small cube out of his pocket and set it on the table in front of him. “Heimdall suggested I bring this, when last I was on Asgard. I believe he saw this coming.”

The holograph that sprung from the cube was dazzling in its complexity, so crisp and defined that Phil wondered for a brief, insane moment if the image in front of him was solid. Jemma and Fitz both sucked in gasps, and from the corner of his eye he saw Jemma’s quick, excited wriggle. Only her good manners were keeping her seated; she most likely wanted to launch herself toward the cube and spout any number of questions about the technology. 

“This is your city,” Thor said simply, and it was in that moment that Phil really took the time to look at the image as a whole, at lines and curves and the sprawl of shapes that had been haunting his dreams and possessing his mind for months. Jemma seemed to come to the same realization a few seconds behind him, a choked whine escaping her mouth as she slid off the desk to her feet.

“Obviously someone recognizes this place,” Tony said dryly, though Phil barely heard him as he took a few quick steps toward the image, stopping just before his body met the first stone wall. 

“Jemma,” he said, recognizing that he sounded rather dazed. “Do you see…”

“Yes.”

There, in the center of the city, a building that drew his eye and tugged at his mind. Plain, despite its prestigious placement. Immediately recognizable. 

“You kept that picture, right?” Jemma asked him softly, not sparing him a glance. “Phil, where is it?”

“Desk, top right drawer, in the secret compartment.”

Natasha was the one to retrieve the photograph, unpicking the various locks with an ease that screamed her familiarity with the room. “I thought you just had a fetish,” she said blandly, handing him the photo he had taken of Jemma’s feet.

“The exact same, from a bird’s eye view,” Jemma murmured, comparing the symbol to the building. “What is that place?”

“The temple,” Thor replied solemnly, even as Tony snatched the photograph from Phil’s hand with a quizzical expression.

“Would these tiny feet belong to a tiny scientist?” he asked, shoving the photograph toward Steve and grinning slyly at his blush. “What have you been getting up to in the bedroom, Agent?”

Luckily, everyone else ignored Tony, at least for the moment. “That’s where Skye is,” Phil said, absolutely certain of himself. He felt… odd. It was as if every wayward synapse in his mind had snapped back into place, leaving him content, focused, and utterly under control. His mind hadn’t felt this sharp since before New York, nor had his senses felt quite so alive. He brushed his hand against Jemma’s as she continued to examine the temple, and the rush of endorphins that flooded him over that mere touch of skin against skin was almost an aphrodisiac. The only thing he could think was that the impulses left behind by the GH325- now satisfied, he sincerely hoped- had taken up quite a bit of mental real estate. 

“If they have taken her there, she will not be the same when she leaves.” Thor’s utter seriousness pulled him back to the moment. “I’m not sure a human could survive what is to be found in that temple, truth be told.”

“She’s not entirely human,” Phil admitted slowly. “I don’t know more than that.”

“Then there is a chance, if we leave now.” The image of the city disappeared abruptly, and Thor pocketed the cube. “Even I do not know what lies within the walls of that building,” he said in warning. “It is entirely possible that none of us will ever return again.”

It was Jemma who replied in the ensuing silence, as Natasha jerked the photograph from Tony’s hand. “Then it’s a chance we’ll have to take.”


	12. when risin' time is near

“Oi, tiny scientist!”

Jemma looked up from the supplies she was packing, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, Mr. Stark?”

“I need to get a better idea of what, exactly, went down with Fury.” He claimed a nearby stool, nodding at Fitz, who looked a little bit star-struck. “It was a training exercise, right?”

“No.” He was about a foot closer than she was comfortable with, though she was well-aware that he wasn’t doing so to intimidate her. At nearly four feet away, he wouldn’t have been infringing on the personal space of most people. Before Bakshi, he would have been well outside of hers. 

She moved down the table to begin packing a different box, trying to make the movement look natural. “It was a rash move, on my part.”

“Jemma goes on a tear, every once in a while,” Fitz offered in a helpful tone, and he ignored her glare. “Not that surprised, truth be told.”

Tony swiveled on the stool to face Fitz. “You are about to become my new favorite non-Pepper person. Tell me more.”

“Well, there was that time she shot a superior officer in the chest-”

“Not a real bullet!” she interrupted hastily.

“-or the time she jumped out the Bus without a parachute, or the time-”

“Fitz, please hush.”

“Fitz, please keep going,” Tony countered with a delighted grin. “You must drive Agent crazy, TS.” He paused, considering the nickname. “I need to come up with something better than that.”

Jemma huffed in annoyance, leaving the room at a fast clip as Fitz began to recount a particularly embarrassing incident from her first firearm lesson. She passed Barton and Rogers as she drew near the common room (she wasn’t quite sure where she was going, but ‘away’ seemed good enough) and after exchanging nods she thought she had escaped actual conversation. 

Then they started following her, and it took every fiber of her being to not launch herself into a sprint toward Phil’s office. What would she tell him, after all? Captain America wants to chat, save me?

“Just as a warning, Tony spent the last hour trying to change the lyrics to ‘Tiny Dancer’,” Clint informed her seriously. He was as far from her as he could be and still walk side-by-side down the hall, which told her that either he had a very good read on her body language, or that Natasha had brought him up to date. “He might try to sing them when you least expect it.”

That bit of information would have been funny if Steve weren’t walking two feet away on her opposite side, leaving her between two tall, musclebound men. Aesthetically pleasing, yes. Comfortable, no. “I have trouble believing that he could make it scan.”

“Give the man enough alcohol and he can make as many slant rhymes as you please.” 

“Must be why his lyrics were terrible,” Steve replied dryly. “After this is all over we’ll have to get him some scotch.”

Why wasn’t Skye here for this? Skye would love this. Two perfectly friendly men with sterling(ish) reputations, and all Jemma wanted to do was drop back and hide in a closet. She was already delaying their departure over her annoyance with Tony, and now…

They were both drifting toward her as they continued down the hall. Even Clint, and she had to wonder if his initial reticence had been more personal preference and less inside information. Natasha might not have said much, after all, out of respect for Jemma’s privacy, and they both apparently thought that she was some Natasha clone. She hoped they never tossed her a gun in the heat of battle.

Clint turned the corner too sharply and Steve not sharply enough, and the near collision was too much for her shaky composure. She stopped dead in the middle of the hall, realizing she was cringing away from both of them. It was humiliating, but she was unable to make herself move. 

“Please step back,” she managed to whisper, her senses on overdrive. “I need you both to step back.”

Ropes around her wrists and ankles, the searing pain of electricity rippling across her skin, both Bakshi and Ward smiling at her without one hint of compassion. This was a strongest reaction than she had had to the ordeal since… since…

Well, since the half-dozen or so moments when she had thought that Bakshi really was on the verge of taking her interrogation farther. And she was having it over _Captain America_ , of all people, and Hawkeye. What a wretch she was. 

“Hey.” Clint’s voice was low and soothing, and when she dared to peek upward they were both pressed against the wall a good six feet from her, crouching low to the floor. “Bad move on our part. Can we get someone for you?”

“I’m just going to- to leave.” She stuttered more than spoke the words, face flushed with embarrassment, and concentrated on sidling farther along the corridor past them. Living quarters were just a few halls away; she could hide away behind her locked door and pretend that a mere lock made her safe. “ _Sorry_.”

Any sound they might have made after that was covered by her frantic bolt down the corridor. She was shit at this, really and truly. Losing her mind and alienating allies and _oh god oh god oh god._

But then a locked door, and blankets she could burrow under, not even bothering to kick off her shoes before impersonating a quivering rabbit. 

They smelled a little like Phil, and a little like her. That was nice. It didn’t quite cancel out her panic, but it helped.

\- - -

“Hey Phil, we did a thing.”

The last time Clint had given him that sheepish look, a city block had been on fire. “Do we need to evacuate?” Phil asked wearily, already shoving the most important files on his desk into a briefcase. “Was it nuclear? Do I need to call the nearest president?”

“It’s not that wide-reaching.”

Shit, Steve looked sheepish, too. That could hardly be a good sign. “What happened?”

“We accidentally scared Jemma.” 

Phil’s glare in response had Clint hurrying to explain, and the way he was stumbling over his words told Phil more than anything how serious the situation was. “One moment she was fine, and then we both cut too close when we turned a corner,” he said. “I thought her body language was a bit off, but I obviously misread her entirely. I didn’t think-”

“Who did it?” Steve’s utterly serious, grim tone cut straight through Clint’s semi-ramble. “Where’s the bastard who scared her?”

“One of them is dead.” Phil was halfway out the door at that point, a part of his mind wondering whether he should send everyone else ahead, whether it wouldn’t just be better to keep Jemma safe here with him beside her. “The other one used her as leverage to grab Skye. Go keep the others on track; we have to leave soon.”

Someone had to leave soon, at any rate. Skye had to be saved, and Jemma had to be comforted, and why, why, why couldn’t he have roughly five hundred more people? Hell, he’d take five, at this point, and count himself lucky.

The door was locked, but when he used his key he was relieved that it opened smoothly. She hadn’t shoved a door under the knob, though he wouldn’t have blamed her if she had.

Where she was hiding was immediately obvious. “Just me, Jemma,” he told the lump on the bed, not wanting to increase her level of anxiety. “May I stay?”

She peeked out at him from under the coverlet, and the look on her face was like a punch to the gut. “Hello.”

He took a seat on the edge of the bed, not reaching out for her until she made the first move. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“I’m afraid I might have offended your personal hero.” She looked a bit flushed, under her pile of blankets, but didn’t even inch forward. “So sorry.”

“They crowded you.” Maybe he should have warned them, or they should have been more observant, or Natasha should have said something- or maybe none of the above had been the correct response. He doubted that Jemma would have wanted him to spill the story to every ally they had, but this still shouldn’t have happened. “Steve isn’t offended, trust me. Neither is Clint.”

“I wouldn’t even have been there, but I let Tony annoy me into leaving,” she said in a whisper. “We don’t have time for me to be acting like a petty brat.”

“I commend you for merely leaving. You could have injected him with something terrible.” His hunched over posture was not the most comfortable, but she didn’t appear to be coming out anytime soon. “If you need to stay, sweetheart, that’s fine. I’m not dragging you halfway around the world without your permission.”

She did squirm several inches forward at that, a frantic look on her face. “I can’t leave Skye there.”

She wouldn’t do much to help Skye if she were having a panic attack in the cargo hold either, but he didn’t want to point that out. “Would it be okay if I joined you?”

Jemma held up the blanket in silent offer, her misery evident. “I’m sorry,” she said as he kicked off his shoes and loosened the tie he had only put on a mere hour before. “I’m so sorry. I don’t- over _Steve Rogers_ , of all people.”

“He is rather intimidating, physically.” He probably should have taken off his jacket while he had the chance, but that time had passed- now he lay side by side with her, only covering her hand with his. “Jemma, no one expects you to just be over this in a matter of days.”

“They’re _allies_.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know what happened; my brain just went haywire, all of a sudden.”

“Oh, love.” He pulled the hand he held a bit closer so that he could kiss the curve of her palm. “True allies wouldn’t take offense over that.”

With every touch that frisson of longing ran along his skin and zipped through his nerve endings. Was it the bond? Had the alien impulses hardwired in his brain managed to dampen the effect, somehow, when they had first met? He couldn’t be having this kind of formerly tamped-down desire muddle his thinking, not now, not when the wrong move on his part might make Jemma shy away. 

It wasn’t just a physical reaction, though. He had thought that his protective instincts were at red alert _before_ they had returned to the base, but his reaction to her peeking out from under the blanket had blown him away. Fury would have done better to choose someone who didn’t have a bondmate; Phil was beginning to think at least half the reason that Fury had done so well as Director was that he had never had a soulmark in the first place. Sort of like being a monk, but without the stringent rules over celibacy and worldly goods. 

If this was how a bond normally felt, if this was how _Jemma_ had been feeling ever since they had met, no wonder he had nearly driven her off at least a half-dozen times. 

“I didn’t embarrass you?”

“No, not at all.” She didn’t seem to mind the light grasp he still had on her hand, or the gentle sweep of his fingertips against the skin of her inner wrist. “I’m in your corner, Jemma. Whatever you need, I want to give you.”

She inched toward him, pressing against his side, her head against the sheets. “I want to be healthy for you.”

“It will come, love.” After they dealt with Ward they could take some time to rest. Some coddling would not go amiss; he didn’t coddle Jemma nearly enough. She had mentioned going somewhere warm, and it would be worth enduring a beach-type locale for her. Not Tahiti, obviously, but Stark probably had a small island he could borrow. “There’s no rush.”

It helped to wrap his arm around her and snuggle her close for a few minutes, breathing in the scent of her hair as her own breathing began to calm and slow. “I’m ready,” she said finally, her voice stronger than it had been. “Thank you, Phil.”

She was the one who re-tied his tie, looping the fabric neatly into a perfect knot. “How handsome you are,” she murmured, a soft smile on her face as she lifted onto her toes and brushed her lips against the curve of his chin. “Especially when your shirt is all rumpled.”

He was practically swaying toward her as he stood there, fighting the urge to curve his hands over her hips and draw her closer. This was not an ideal time to be having some kind of delayed bonding reaction, but he was having it all the same. Instead he placed one hand gently against her cheek, brushing the tips of his fingers against the tiny wisps of hair bordering her face. “And you’re beautiful.”

She blushed lightly at that, a look of pleasure on her face. “We’d better join everyone else. I still have supplies to pack, and I promised Fitz we would take a look at the new ICER cartridges once we’re on the Bus.”

“We’re going to be in the air for a while. Make sure you come upstairs to get some sleep at some point, hmm?”

“I will.”

\- - -

Most of the city was in ruins, stone walls crumbled to the ground and invaded by some kind of pernicious ivy. The temple, though- the temple still stood, its completeness jarring in comparison with its neighbors. 

They had gathered in a building some distance away, and where they stood had the air of some kind of assembly room. Steve and Clint were keeping themselves at a circumspect distance from her, and if it weren’t for the fact that she was still embarrassed about the incident she would have found their sheepish expressions almost amusing. “They really didn’t do anything wrong,” she told Natasha quietly.

“Mistakes happen. Everyone will be fine.” Natasha checked her gun carefully, her professional gaze missing nothing. “Don’t blame yourself for it, okay? After New York… well, we were all a little damaged after New York. Anyway, they get it, trust me.” 

It was then that May appeared in the doorway, shadowed by a tall man who looked vaguely familiar. “Sam Wilson,” he said, giving them a friendly nod. “Steve gave me a call.”

“I hope he told you exactly how dangerous this might be?” Phil replied dryly, but seemed relaxed enough about the new arrival. Jemma knew that probably had a great deal to do with the fact that Steve looked genuinely happy to see the man, who wore some very interesting equipment on his back. Fitz was already heading toward him, drawn by the allure of technology. 

“He said something about aliens and certain death. Sounds like Wednesday, at least with him.”

“He has a point.” Natasha shot Steve a teasing smile. “Though it is Friday.”

Whatever response he might have had ready was cut off by a sudden rumbling of the earth beneath their feet, intense enough that Jemma stumbled, barely keeping her balance. In the silence after the quake she began to make her way across the room to Phil, dust rising around her sneakers as she walked. 

“The temple,” May said grimly, gesturing them toward the door with a sharp jerk of her head. “Hurry, there might-”

A second quake struck, and this one did toss Jemma to the floor with a painful, bruising impact. Through the groan of shifting stone she heard several of her companions curse fervently, Natasha’s voice cutting through the tumult with a sharp warning about the ceiling. Looking upward as she struggled to her feet, Jemma saw the crack forming above, saw the jagged rock that was forcing itself free of the ceiling and preparing to drop.

The surge of adrenaline that shot through her when she saw the spot where it would fall propelled her forward, her feet slipping on crumbling stone until the moment when she threw herself against Phil, sending both of them crashing to the floor several feet away.

There was a ringing noise in her ears, she noted absently, rolling off of him with a pained grunt and a cough. Or there was a ringing in the city. Somewhere, _something_ was ringing, and she really, really wanted it to stop.

Beside her Phil gasped as he regained his breath, and when she was able to lift her head she found him staring in disbelief at the slab of stone that had nearly landed on his skull. “Big rock,” he said with a wheeze.

“Didn’t think your head was hard enough to break it.” She took another moment to catch her breath before trying to sit up, realizing then that the fallen ceiling had trapped them on one side of the room. “Oh shit.”

“Report,” someone snapped on the other side of the new wall. “Jemma?”

Natasha, she realized with relief. “Alive, I think.”

“Alive,” Phil confirmed, and when she turned to look at him found that he was also sitting up, giving her the same kind of look he got when he waxed poetic about Captain America. “Might not be happy about it tomorrow, but alive.”

He moved faster than she expected, pulling her against him and into a kiss that wasn’t helping the ringing in her ears. She didn’t panic at the sudden move, or the way he was pressed so tightly against her. This, she understood, and welcomed, her mouth frantic against his and her hands gripping the edges of his kevlar. 

“We’re all okay on this side,” she heard Natasha say. “Do you have an exit?”

“Window,” Jemma managed to reply when Phil dropped his head against her shoulder, breathing heavily. “We’ll make it out.”

“I didn’t scare you?” he asked Jemma quietly as he helped her to her feet. She ached and there were several spots of blood dotting her sleeves from smaller shards of rock, but everything moved as it should.

“No. Not from you.” It might have been different, if he had made that kind of move in their bedroom with the world quiet around them, but she had been in the same desperate kind of mindset he had been caught in. “You’re all right?”

“I’ll be fine.” He brushed her hair back from her face, his expression telling her that a part of him was still stuck in that moment. “You saved my life.”

“Like I was going to let you die. Honestly, Phil.” She sniffed, feeling that ache in her throat that indicated tears were inevitable. “Can we climb down?”

They both examined the drop outside the window. Short, luckily- no more than eight feet or so, and the ground below looked firm. “Let me go first,” Phil said, climbing onto the sill. “I’ll catch you.”

“I’ve already landed on top of you once, today. Next time I might break something.”

“Not at that height, sweetheart.”

She kept a grip on his wrists as he lowered himself from the sill, only releasing him when he was dangling a few feet above the ground. “Okay,” he said after landing, grimacing slightly but standing securely on his feet. “Your turn.”

She didn’t have his upper body strength, and she certainly didn’t intend to just jump into his arms from the window. Instead she inched her way over the sill, keeping her chest on the stone for as long as she could before daring to lower herself further. 

His arms wrapped around her thighs before she got too far, taking enough of her weight that she no longer felt like the lip of the sill would slip from her grasp. “I’ve got you. Just take it slow.”

She let go cautiously once she had reached her full length, his arms around her waist. “What a good job you’ve done,” he murmured as he set her on her feet, still embracing her. “My brave Jem.”

She allowed herself one moment to regain her breath, her face pressed against his neck, before pulling away to examine their surroundings. A courtyard of some kind, bare and dusty. At one point there had been exits in each direction, but the most recent quake had caused several critical pillars to tumble, leaving only one exit clear. 

“It will take us away from the others,” she pointed out, scanning the high walls of the courtyard. Several had spots that looked like sturdy hand and footholds, but it seemed unwise to trust their lives to the old and crumbling stone. 

“I don’t think we have a choice,” he replied, scanning the walls as well. He seemed to come to the same conclusion. “Remind me to make hard-hats a required part of the mission uniform.”

The hall they entered looked sound enough, but minute tremors under her feet indicated that another quake might be coming. She followed him quickly through the corridor, slipping through a half-open door when they came to it and running as fast as she could manage through a series of empty rooms. That was a small blessing, at least- other than the people holding Skye, the city was deserted. 

When they were finally back on the street they were alone. They hid in the shade of an alley as Phil tried to contact the others, frowning as he grew more frustrated. “Nothing.”

“We’re, what, a half a kilometer from the temple?” She glanced down the empty street, wishing that the sun were not quite so bright overhead. “They’ll be heading there too, right?”

“After they give up on waiting for us, yes.” He cast her a worried look, one hand stroking over her hair as if she might disappear into thin air. “I don’t like these tremors, Jemma. Thor never said anything about earthquakes.”

“He might not have known.”

A stronger shiver of earth rattled them and drove them from their hiding place into the open road. “Stick close to the walls for as long as you can,” he said quickly, drawing her along by the hand, a gun held in his right. “If I tell you to run, please, _please_ run.”

The closer they drew to the temple, the worse the damage. Walls that had stood for centuries lay in heaps, the new damage immediately obvious when compared to the softer crumblings of natural deterioration. Parts of the street had sunk into the earth, gravel shifting dangerously under her feet when they edged too near a few of the new sinkholes. 

That was nothing- nothing- to the temple itself. 

The temple was _gone_. The quake had hit it so hard that the stone had been reduced to pebbles and dust, sinking below the earth into what had most likely been the subterranean levels. 

The look of raw grief on Phil’s face had her turning away, stumbling to the side to lean against one of the few walls still standing nearby. They were too late, much too late. Skye was as good as entombed under the tons of rock nearly under their feet, and if she had survived the collapse her oxygen supply would run out before they could come close to reaching her. 

She should never have let Skye go with Ward, not to this terrible death. Or she should have been stronger, should have kept on task, but instead precious time had slipped away while she had been shivering under those blankets. She- she had-

“Jemma.” 

Phil’s hands pressed lightly against her cheeks as she kept her eyes closed, a quiet whine escaping her throat. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hush, love. Nothing you could have done.” His own voice was thick with sorrow, but gentle, and she knew it was because he hadn’t made the same calculations she had. If she had gritted her teeth and stayed as Tony dragged every embarrassing story out of Fitz, they wouldn’t have been delayed. They-

“It’s not over yet,” a strange voice said, and in an instant Phil had spun around, pressing her behind him and up against the wall as he leveled his gun at the man standing ten or so feet away. “Give her a bit more time,” he said, as if that were in any way reasonable.

He was Phil’s age, Jemma guessed, or possibly a few years older. His hair was grayer, the lines on his face deeper. A jagged cut, barely scabbed over, ran down his right arm.

“And you would be?” Phil asked him, his voice tense. 

“Daisy’s father.”

That Daisy was supposed to be Skye was immediately obvious to them both. “Where is she?” Phil’s aim did not waver, not for a second. “Where is Skye?”

“Becoming something greater.” The man walked a few feet away from them, closer to the pit. “Becoming her true self.”

Phil’s voice, when he replied, was clipped and angry. Jemma was glad not to speak; the horror that was dawning on her was worse than the panic had been. “Are you telling me,” he began, “that you took Skye- your _daughter_ \- and left her underground in the middle of an earthquake?”

“Oh, no.” The man turned back toward them and smiled. “She was the earthquake.”

The fact that Phil didn’t answer told Jemma that he was just as at a loss for words as she was. 

The earth began to shake again, the strongest quake since the one that had sent the ceiling down on their heads, and he pulled her away from the wall, away from the man who stood waiting for a miracle. In the seconds before Phil forced her to the ground, hunching protectively over her, Jemma saw the stone in the pit stir. 

She missed seeing the actual explosion upward that had pebbles raining down on them, though as the first one struck her leg she thrust her arms around Phil, curving her hands protectively over the back of his neck and his skull. He cursed quietly in her ear as the stones struck, his arms tightening around her as debris continued to fall on them. The pieces smacking against the back of her hands and on her unprotected limbs stung and were likely to leave impressive bruises, but she kept her hold on him, determined to save him from a concussion if at all possible. 

“What did you do to me?”

He released his grip on her enough so that they could both sit up in the wake of the unnatural storm, her eyes straining to see the speaker through the haze of dust. It was only when Skye stepped forward, battered and bruised, that Jemma realized why her voice had sounded odd: the dust was one culprit, but the livid bruising around Skye’s throat another. “What did you do to me?” she asked again, more stridently this time, the rock around her feet shivering. “ _What did you do to me?_ ”

“I made you strong.”

Jemma scrambled forward out of Phil’s grip, half-crawling a few steps before she managed to get to her feet. The tremors had started again at the man’s words, and the look on Skye’s face did not bode well for any of them. “Skye! Don’t, please don’t.”

Skye’s furious expression faltered when she turned to look at Jemma, the quiver of earth under their feet subsiding slightly. “Jemma, take AC and run.”

“Not without you.” Phil placed a hand on her back, but she didn’t turn to look at him. “Skye, please.”

“Run,” she hissed. "I said _run_."

“We’re not leaving you behind,” he replied calmly, extending his free hand to her. “Come with us.”

The impact of _something_ had him jolting forward, falling to his knees. It was the gleam of metal embedded in the back of his kevlar vest that made Jemma drop to the ground beside him, scrambling for the gun he still held in his hand. “Go,” he gasped, twisting around with difficulty to face his attacker. “Jemma, go _now_.”

“She won’t be able to move fast enough to escape a head-shot,” Ward said, his tone almost lazy. “That was a dirty trick, Cal.”

“You would have kept her from fulfilling her potential.”

“I rather liked my previous level of potential,” Skye snapped, and stomped her foot. The ground rolled in all directions, making Jemma feel suddenly queasy. “Both of you need to leave me the fuck alone!”

“Daisy-”

“Skye-”

Below them the ground began to groan, a jagged stretch of earth opening into a chasm not three feet from where Jemma sat, her arms locked around Phil. He was still gasping from the impact of the bullet hitting his vest. “I love you,” she whispered quickly as the crack ran nearly to their feet. “I love you so much.”

“I never did get you that wedding,” was his somewhat dazed response, and as she began to laugh (a bit hysterically, but a laugh nonetheless), a muffled pop cut through the grinding of stone and Ward collapsed to the earth.

The quake ceased as quickly as it had begun. They all turned to look at May as she stepped into view, a hard expression on her face. “Do I need to use another bullet, Skye?” she asked her, in a gentler tone than Jemma might have expected.

Skye looked for a long moment at Ward’s lifeless form and the blood seeping into the ground, and then turned to examine the man he had addressed as Cal. She seemed to shrink in those seconds, the rage that had been such a vital part of her subsiding quickly and dramatically, leaving only a shaking shell behind. “I have questions,” she said finally, looking small and defeated, and May nodded her acceptance. 

The man did not put up a fight when May clasped the cuffs around his wrist, nor did he offer any resistance as Steve, Tony, and Sam began to lead him back to the Bus. Skye hesitated before following, giving the wet, dark patch of ground one last glance, but turned when May put a hand on her arm.

Jemma was not entirely certain that she would be able to get up again. “You took a beating.” Natasha surveyed both Phil and Jemma expertly as she and Clint helped them to their feet, and seemed to decide that a smart-ass remark was in order. “Did you throw yourself against every wall possible on your way here?”

“Ha ha.” Phil was slumped against Clint, his face alarmingly white. He leaned into Jemma’s hand when she reached out to touch his cheek. “At least I don’t have a concussion.”

“Yes, Jemma appears to have spared you that fate,” she replied tartly, lifting Jemma’s free hand to examine the bloodied back. Jemma was far too tired to resist. “I don’t care if Nick has quit; he can come back long enough to keep an eye on things while both of you recover.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I’m serious.” Natasha’s determined expression promised that Nick Fury’s retirement would neither be long nor peaceful. “Honestly, this is ridiculous. Jemma, lean against me. I’m going to drag that man to the Playground kicking and screaming.”

The smile Phil gave her was lopsided. “Sure you don’t want to be Director?”

“Fuck you, Phil.”

\- - -

It took time to settle Skye, though not because she technically needed settling. She was so uncharacteristically quiet that Phil felt like he needed to tip-toe around her, and most of the others (including Tony, luckily) seemed to be of the same mind. 

May had no such qualms. She informed Natasha and Trip that they would be flying the Bus (in a voice that neither dared argue with), and quickly and efficiently helped Skye clean herself up before bundling her into pajamas and into bed. The last Phil saw of her she was sitting on the bed beside Skye, stroking her hair as she fell into a restless sleep. The Bus seemed unaffected by Skye’s new powers, at least. It seemed that only earth itself reacted to Skye, and once in the air there was nothing for her to control. 

Phil himself was asleep nearly the instant he crawled into bed, but he held out long enough to make sure that Jemma was curled up alongside him. Then it was dreams of earthquakes, of falling rock and sandy beaches, of Jemma’s frantic, wide-eyed expression as she whispered her love while the ground split open beside them. It was the sudden appearance of Loki that jerked him awake, Loki and the ache of the deep bruise that now lay directly over the scar on his back. He was fairly sure that Ward had been aiming for just that spot, out of spite- he could have just shot him in the head and been done with it.

At some point in the night he had wrapped himself around her, one arm around her chest and his knee hitched over her legs. He eased back slightly, not wanting her to wake and panic when she found him practically on top of her. 

He wanted to move in closer, though. Not out of desire, but because he wanted to press himself along the length of her as she slept, to let her warmth and quiet breathing reassure him that they had both lived through another day. The odds had definitely been against that more than once.

He had a feeling that he would be having nightmares about today for a long time. That moment when Jemma had slammed into him, sending them both crashing into the floor- he could almost see how those nightmares would go. Maybe she wouldn’t move fast enough, maybe she would merely shove him out of the way, but the idea of her lifeless body pinned beneath rocks would be haunting him for months to come. 

She stirred under his arm, turning to curl up against his chest. Still asleep, as far as he could tell, but her breathing had turned ragged, as if she were on the verge of her own nightmare. He began to stroke his hand over her hair, a slow, repetitive movement, and after a time she relaxed.

At least she would sleep, even if he couldn’t.


	13. a touch of Georgia slide

Jemma woke feeling faintly nauseated, and it only took her a few moments to realize why: they were circling. “Is there a storm?” she asked, sitting up with some difficulty. Every muscle ached, and judging by Phil’s expression he was in a similar state.

“Skye had a nightmare.” He rubbed his forehead, slumping back in his desk chair. “May’s trying to calm her down so that we can land.”

That made Jemma feel better about her own nightmares; at least any panic attack on her part wouldn’t do worse than inconvenience everyone around her. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?” she asked with a frown, trying to remember how her night had gone. She did distantly remember a dream about tumbling into a crevice, skin tearing against the rough stone sides of the chasm as she slid out of Phil’s reach, but couldn’t quite remember how it had ended. 

“No, I woke myself up.” He walked stiffly around his desk, taking a seat next to her on the bed. “How do you feel?”

He was regarded her with a soft, gentle expression as he stroked her tangled hair back from her face, and she let herself sink into the moment. “Like Natasha took me for a round on the mats,” she murmured. “Or Thor hit me with his hammer.”

“When we get back to the base, the tub is yours.”

The idea of lazing about in some very hot water did have its charms. “What are we going to do with… that man?”

“He hardly deserves the title of father, does he?”

“Biological sperm donor, perhaps.”

“Much better.” He was still stroking her hair and giving her that loving look, despite the fact that she likely had a crease from the pillow on one cheek and definitely had morning breath. “Vault E is empty; he can cool his heels there until we’re ready for him. I think the Avengers will stick around for a while and keep an eye on things.”

“Do you think Nat will really drag Fury back?”

“I think Fury will wake up one morning handcuffed to my desk.” He gave her a small smirk. “What do you think about taking a vacation? We could find a quiet beach house somewhere.”

That sounded like a very good way to give him nightmares, and it wasn’t as if she were interested in wearing a bathing suit, anyway. “I’d prefer to cuddle up with you in front of a fire while snow falls outside. We could drink hot chocolate, maybe play some chess.” She eyed him, feeling very daring, all of a sudden. “Possibly strip chess.”

“I wouldn’t say no to any game of strip chess you decided to initiate.”

It went unspoken that if she changed her mind mid-game, he would help her back into any clothing she had lost with a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Though you would still be fully dressed by the time I lost my boxers, so the potential for humiliation is high.”

“As if I would laugh at you.” 

As nice as the idea of a vacation was, one thing was nagging at her mind. “I don’t want Skye to think we’ve abandoned her.”

“We won’t leave if we think that’s the case.” 

The level of attention he was paying her was so very, very nice. It wasn’t as if he had previously be inattentive, but something did seem… different. “Are you having any impulses?” she asked, tempted to lie back down and let him stroke her back to sleep. “You’re almost due, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t even had the urge to doodle, not since Thor showed us his map. Once more you have my undivided attention.”

Maybe that was it. She had become used to his being distracted, and here he was staring straight at her, lulling her into a state of peace with every stroke of his fingers through her hair. “You’re putting me to sleep,” she protested weakly, slumping back against the pillows. 

“You should sleep. We might be circling for another hour or so.”

“I would only end up strapping into a seat for landing wearing my pajamas.” 

Still, it would almost be worth it, assuming he spent the rest of the flight stroking her hair like that. 

“I like your current pjs,” he said, as if being helpful. 

“That’s because everything I’m wearing is yours. Even the sainted Director Coulson has a possessive streak.” She regretted the adjective not a second later. ‘Sainted’ generally meant dead, and that had nearly happened, and several times at that. 

And she did like his possessive streak. If he were the type to be possessive in public she never would have approved, but a bit of possessiveness in the bedroom could be exciting, and he never pushed the boundary too far. 

“You wear them better than I do.” He had moved to lounging next to her in his suit and polished leather shoes, which was very much a move from the pre-Director days. “Even the socks.”

She gave her feet a skeptical glance, wriggling her toes experimentally. “A bit loose, don’t you think?”

“You have tiny feet.”

“Though I have to wonder why your wool socks are always warmer than mine.” 

“Damn fashion industry.” He was in an extraordinarily good mood, all things considered. He had slipped an arm around her and was playing with the ends of her hair, his expression more befitting a besotted lover than the director of an agency temporarily in blackout. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. “While we’re on vacation we’ll buy you some thicker socks.”

“There is one other thing I would like to do.” She turned slightly toward him, nestling against his side. “Marry me, jazz man?” 

His immediate reaction was not startlement or confusion, but sudden (and admittedly ego-boosting) joy. “We’ve put that off for much too long,” he said, his fingertips stroking over the skin of her neck. “I would be so honored to be your husband, Jemma.”

“Even if I can’t give you a proper wedding night, at least not right away?” As much as she might want to, the portion of her mind prone to panic might not agree with her plans. “A raincheck might be in order.”

“I’m not marrying you for sex.”

“Though we have very good sex,” she interjected, wanting to establish that point.

“We have extremely good sex,” he agreed with a grin. “You’re worth waiting for, Jemma. If you want to spend our wedding night eating popcorn and watching Doctor Who, then I’m all for it.”

“You’re almost too good to be true.” She spent a moment playing with the lapel of his jacket, considering her next request. “And I want to put another tracker into my wedding ring.” She met his eyes, seeing his concerned gaze. “I can’t be in that kind of situation again, Phil, and not have some kind of hope. I know most captors would probably just take the ring anyway, but…”

“One for you, one for me,” he said quietly. “Would a matching set suit you?”

“Please.”

“I’ll discuss it with Fitz, then. I know he would be all too happy to plant a tracker on me.” She could see him watching her carefully out of the corner of her eyes, and finally he spoke. “Is something else bothering you, sweetheart?”

“We were late,” she replied quietly.

“Not _too_ late. Skye will learn control, and she’ll learn fast.”

“We were late because of me.”

He had been stroking a hand soothingly down her arm, but at her words he stopped, fingers curving around her elbow. “Jemma-”

“I had a panic attack and put us back at least an hour,” she persisted. “That hour could have meant the world to Skye. We could have gotten to her before that man left her in the tunnels, before whoever left those marks around her throat had a chance to bruise her.” She cast him a worried glance. “Do you think it was Ward?”

He considered that, and from his expression she thought that his suspicions had been lying in a similar direction. “Most one-way bonds are unstable,” he said eventually. “It would be very, very difficult to feel that connection when the other party felt nothing in return. Like with-”

“Audrey and Daniels,” she supplied when his voice faltered. “I know.”

“Maybe worse. There Ward was, pining under our noses, and knowing all the while that Skye didn’t have a clue.” He quickly turned from contemplative to serious. “It’s not your fault, Jemma.”

“We were late because of me- and she was there because I wasn’t strong enough to... to...“

She struggled with the words, not wanting to say the ones she heard ringing in her head. “And I was only in that position because I didn’t notice two people sneaking up on me.”

“I might not have noticed two operatives of their caliber sneaking up on me, and I went to school for that, Jem.” He looked more distressed by the turn of conversation than she had expected, and had angled himself toward her, almost around her, on the bed. “And if you had gone with Ward, you might be dead by now.”

“I know.” Dead or stripped of all power and autonomy, because Ward would have sold her into the worst situation he could find. 

She felt oddly bereft, knowing that Ward was dead, but some wiser part of her was ready with reminders that she was mourning the Ward she had once thought existed- the brother, not the captor. “But Skye-”

“Ske would have been _devastated_ ,” he said, interrupting her with the kind of fierce tone he had never used with her before. “And Fitz, and Trip, and May. And once I had finished salting the earth of whoever had dared lay a finger on you, I would have eaten my gun.”

She was gaping at him, she realized after a moment. “No, Phil, you-”

“You’re the team’s heart, and mine,” he said simply. “I could be a heartless man, Jemma.”

“Please, take it back. I need you to take it back.” She moved quickly to a kneeling position beside him, tangling her fingers in his shirt. “Please, Phil.”

“The pun? It was pretty bad.”

“ _No_.” She settled heavily onto his lap as she began to cry, barely noticing when his expression shifted from grim to distraught. “I don’t want you to- not if I die, Phil. _Please_.”

A good, solid hug did nothing to improve her mood. “All right.” His whisper was a little bit frantic. “I’ll be good, Jemma, even in the face of catastrophe. I’ll stop talking nonsense, now. Please stop crying.”

“You are my heart.” He looked so stricken by her words that the emotion did not quite compute. “Don’t ever think you aren’t.”

“Okay,” he said quietly, pressing her head against his chest, his fingers buried in her hair. “I’m so sorry I upset you, sweetheart.”

It was several minutes before she managed to stop sobbing, and by the time she was through there were several damp patches on his shirtfront. “Now I have a headache,” she grumbled, one hand still clenched on the fabric of his jacket. “Why do all of our proposals inevitably go awry?”

“Because I’m a callous idiot.” 

Even the way he held her felt slightly different, and she couldn’t pinpoint why. “No, you aren’t.” She loosened her grip on his jacket, tilting her head back to stare up at him with reddened eyes. “Obviously I need to marry you post-haste so that we can stop proposing.”

“I’m in favor.”

She doubtlessly looked puffy and an absolute wreck, but he didn’t seem to notice, bless him. “Good.”

\- - -

They ended up leaving Skye’s less-than-fatherly father in Vault F, partially because Phil felt much more comfortable keeping two dangerous prisoners with more than one very thick wall between them, and partially because he had actually been amused when Clint said, “Oh, just toss him in the ‘fuck you’ vault.”

Skye had barricaded herself in her quarters once they had coaxed her off the Bus, and ever since there had been a vague shimmer of movement beneath his feet. He thought she might be crying, but when he had knocked on her door she had told him- in a more polite voice than he would have expected- to leave, please. 

“I did get a hold of Fury,” Natasha informed him later that afternoon, as he was catching up on the reports from around the world and trying to ignore the fact that he felt as if he had been trampled by an entire herd of wildebeests. “He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Threatened his life, did you?”

“I told him you were in dire need of a vacation. I think he’s bored, wherever the hell he is. I hope you won’t be upset if he enacts a coup.”

The thought that Nick might actually take back the directorship was so euphoric Phil had to lean back and bask in the feeling. “I for one welcome our one-eyed overlord.”

“I thought that would be the case.” Natasha smirked at him, looking pleased with herself. “I know you have five million things to worry about, but Tony wants to lend you his house in the Alps.”

“He does, does he?”

“I might have suggested it to him.” Natasha sat on his desk, turning from pleased to serious on a dime. “And I do think you should take him up on it, Phil.”

“I will.” Phil considered the prisoners in his basement, and the shiver of earth beneath them. “Eventually. I can’t just leave Skye, you know.”

“I know.” She sighed, and in that moment was less the infamous Black Widow and more the woman whom he had spotted occasionally over their friendship: brave, cunning, and very, very tired. “I would scold you for prioritizing her over Jemma, but I know that she is like a daughter to you- and I like Skye, too.”

This wasn’t anything like the Audrey situation, in other words, and her recognition of that fact made him feel a bit better. “If at all possible, I want to wait until Skye is stable… and until we’ve gotten word from Hand that her father is languishing in the deepest, darkest cell the Fridge has.”

“That’s understandable. Clint and I would like to speak with this Cal, if you’ll let us.” Natasha shot him a glance. “I doubt he’ll say much to anyone other than Skye, but even I dislike the thought of dragging her into an interrogation without her consent.”

“Keep the barrier up. For all we know he has abilities of some kind, and I just don’t want to deal with it.”

“Done.” She slid off of his desk, brushing invisible flecks of dust from her jeans. “I think we’ll all take a turn at him. Even Thor expressed an interest. Don’t worry, though- we’ll all keep the monster caged.”

Phil took a long look at his desk after she left, considering the mess in front of him and what Fury might say when he saw it.

“Fuck this,” was his immediate response. The important business had been dealt with, and the rest could wait. Phil had reached his absolute limit on caffeine intake for the day, his headache was at near-migraine proportions, and he felt a deep need to track down his soulmate and convince her that a nap was an excellent idea. Even if his brain refused to slow down long enough to actually sleep, an hour or so listening to her breath would still be a godsend. 

He found her not in one of the labs, or their bedroom, or the kitchen, but sitting on the concrete floor outside of Skye’s quarters, a miserable expression on her face. “She won’t talk to me,” she told him in a whisper, ignoring the hand he extended to her. “Phil-”

“We’ll give her some time,” he whispered back, kneeling beside her despite the way his knees protested the move. “Come lie down with me for a while, hmm? I know that floor can’t be comfortable.”

She glanced at Skye’s door, her feelings of guilt apparent. “I know how you feel about this, Phil, but... “

“But nothing.” 

He might be injured, but SHIELD trained their operatives well, and scooping up Jemma and carrying her away was one of the less difficult maneuvers he had pulled off in the last week. “If we have to have this conversation again, we will not be having it in earshot of Skye,” he told her gently as she squeaked and grabbed at his shoulders. “Okay?”

She looked even guiltier at that. “I can’t stop thinking it. And if you make even one mention of suicide, I will just start crying again.”

“Nah, I’ve given up on that.” He waited for her to open the door to their room- he probably could have managed it, even with his hands full, but better to let her do it- and once they were inside dropped her onto the bed. “Your response scared the hell out of me.”

“As well it should have,” she responded tartly. 

“But this line of thought of yours also scares the hell out of me.” He cupped her face in his hands, relishing the silken feel of her skin under his fingertips. “I understand guilt, Jem, I really do, but I don’t want you obsessing over this. I can’t bear the thought of what Ward might have done to you if Skye hadn’t interfered.”

“Phil, I know how you feel about Skye.” She murmured the words, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “I remember your reaction when she was shot. She’s precious to you.”

“She is, you’re right.” That night was still coming back to haunt him, even months later. “But nowhere near as precious as you, Jemma. Two completely different categories, believe me.”

She held his gaze for a long moment before finally speaking. “Lie down, please.”

He took of his shoes and obeyed her order, expecting another episode of her crying against his chest. Instead she knelt by his side, leaning over him. “I feel like I’m chasing my own tail, these days,” she murmured, watching him with a grave expression. “Put your arms around me, please.”

An easy enough order to follow. She draped herself almost cautiously across his chest, pressing her mouth to his with slow, uncertain pressure. He kept still and loose, his arms lax around her back. After a few long seconds she deepened the kiss, slowly turning pliant against him. 

When she pulled back minutes later, breathing heavily, it was with a tentative smile on her face. “I’m precious?”

“Want me to make a Golem joke?” he asked in a teasing tone, raising one brow. He would not be rolling her underneath him, no matter how lovely that would feel. “I’d tuck you into my pocketses if you’d let me, Jem.”

“There’s something different about you, too,” she mused, not shifting from her position. “It’s like you’re more present, somehow.”

“I think those impulses the GH325 implanted were distracting me more than I had thought.”

She considered him thoughtfully for a moment. “Maybe even all the way back to the beginning, before we even met?”

“I’m so sorry, Jemma.”

To his disappointment she sat up, but she laughed as she did so and began to undo his tie. “It wasn’t as if you had any clue about the serum at that point. I suppose it does explain why it took me so long to lure you into my arms, though. I just couldn’t compete with the alien chemistry at work on your brain.”

“I’d like to think it would also explain some of my stupider mistakes, but…”

“But then I would be the one without an excuse,” she finished. “We’ve both made a number of mistakes; let’s not blame all of yours on outside forces.” She shot him a meaningful look as she moved on to the buttons on his shirt. “I have noticed how circumspect you’ve been with me, recently,” she said, hands hovering above the last button before his belt. “More than I might have expected, given everything that’s happened. Would I be right in thinking that you’re feeling more ardent than usual?”

She was picking her words carefully, that much was obvious. Before Bakshi she would have given him a teasing grin and asked straight out if he were feeling the urge to shag her into the mattress. “That’s my problem to deal with, not yours.”

“I know,” she murmured, looking lost.

Ignoring the fact that his belt was pressing uncomfortably against a bruise on his back, he grabbed one of the spare pillows and placed it over his hips before holding out his arms to her. “Lie down, Jemma. A nap will do us both good.”

Amusement stole back into her expression, and she picked up the pillow and tossed it to the side before turning off the light. “You aren’t going to scare me if you wake up with an erection,” she told him bluntly, lying down with her head on his shoulder. “I know how the male body works, Phil.”

“I just don’t want to pressure you.”

“And that’s why I haven’t changed rooms.” She yawned, draping an arm over his chest. “Take off your belt; I can tell it’s irritating you.”

He carefully slid it free without shifting her off of him. His head still ached, but the darkness of the room was helping. “Would it upset you if I were no longer the Director?”

“It would be a relief, Phil, honestly.” She snuggled closer, slipping her hand under his unbuttoned shirt to rest over his heart. “Your free time is practically nonexistent, at the moment.”

“Good.” He let his eyelids slip closed, releasing a sigh of relief. “Nick can have the damn job back.”

\- - - 

Jemma briefly considered slipping down the stairs to Vault F after Natasha, but at the last minute caught a glimpse of red plaid rounding a nearby corner. 

Skye was tucked into an alcove when she went to investigate, and Jemma nearly missed her in the unlit space. “Hello, Skye.”

“Hey, Jemma.” She sounded hoarse, and Jemma was unsure if that was from crying or if she had sustained actual damage to her throat. “Sorry about nearly killing you a few days ago,” she continued, obviously trying to turn it into a joke and failing miserably.

“Please don’t worry about that.”

They stared at each other awkwardly for a few moments, though Jemma was fairly certain that neither of them had a good view of the other: Skye still stood in shadow, and Jemma herself was backlit. “Are you hungry?” Jemma offered finally, extending a hand. “I was just thinking lunch might be nice.”

She had actually been avoiding the kitchen, because when last she had checked it had been invaded by Tony, Steve, and Trip, and was altogether too full of tall, loud men for her liking. 

“I’m not hungry.” Skye cursed under her breath, the obscenity too quiet for Jemma to fully discern. “But my blood sugar is getting low, and things tend to get… uh, rumbly when that happens.” She stepped out into the light, ignoring Jemma’s hand. “I was going to wait until after everyone went to sleep, but May kicked me out of my bedroom.”

“Told you to play outside like a good girl?” Jemma asked, smiling slightly.

“Essentially. But all I’ve done is hang around here.” Skye glanced toward the door to Vault F as they passed it, her expression a mixture of revulsion and some strange kind of longing. “I want to ask about my mother,” she admitted quietly. “And I think he might know how to control this.”

“No one will stop you if you decide to ask. No one would blame you for wanting to.” 

“I know.” When Skye finally looked at her fully, Jemma was startled to see how her face had turned blank in the space of mere seconds. “And if I know you, Jemma, you’ve been calling yourself every name in the book for letting me go in your place.”

Jemma stopped in the middle of the hallway, unsure how to respond. “Well…”

Skye took in a breath, her fists clenching. “I wish you had,” she whispered, her voice agonized, and there it was: exactly what Jemma had been fearing. “I know what he would have done to you, because Ward told me, but I still wish that you had, and I’m so sorry.”

“Valid response,” Jemma said through nerveless lips, backing away from her. “Perfectly natural.” 

The floors were shaking, and distantly Jemma heard the crash of glass against concrete. “You go to the kitchen,” she said, now back where she had started at the bend of the corridor. “You need to eat.”

“He sent out your picture, Jemma,” Skye said unexpectedly. “He had bids, and some of those people were disappointed when he didn’t follow through.” 

Even from where Jemma stood she could see the drops of blood now dotting the floor from where Skye’s nails had cut through the skin of her palm. Skye was in pain, and she had been abused, and Jemma understood that part of the brain that seemed to exist only to say _but if you hadn’t_.

“So they know what I look like.” She kept herself as calm as possible, which was not very calm. “They’re looking for me.”

“Yes.” 

May slipped around a nearby corner, apparently having tracked the quake to its source. “Are you all right?”

“He made me into a monster,” Skye said, the words themselves just as shattering as the distraught, hopeless way she had said them. 

May’s gaze flicked quickly between Jemma and Skye, and Jemma had the oddest feeling that she knew exactly what had just happened. “You’re not a monster.” Her hands settled lightly on Skye’s shoulders. “Come with me; you need to eat.”

The tremors followed Skye as May led her away. Once they left her sight Jemma slumped against the wall, breathing heavily as panic began to set in. What pictures had Ward sent? The ones from her file? The candids Skye had always been taking with her phone on the Bus? For all she knew Bakshi had filmed her interrogation and he had sent out stills. 

When she found the will to move she instinctively went in the opposite direction of Skye and May, only to find herself lingering outside the door to Vault D. There was no good reason for her to speak with the prisoner below, who identified herself only as Agent 33 and had obviously been brainwashed within an inch of her life. She was dangerous because of her fervent loyalty to Hydra, and so kept exclusively in her cell, but even Natasha had acknowledged that it would be pointless and cruel to treat her as a hostile.

She looked up as Jemma descended the stairs, not moving from the cozy nest she had made on the bed. There were books on a nearby table, but as far as Jemma knew she had never bothered to open one. 

“Bakshi is dead, then,” she said emotionlessly. 

“Yes.”

The woman nodded, keeping her gaze squarely on Jemma. “Did he make you happy to comply?”

A trigger phrase, Jemma was certain. “No.” She stood hesitantly behind the sole chair on her side of the barrier. “Is that what he did to you?”

“Not Bakshi, but…”

She broke off, a brief struggle passing over her face, and then resumed. “The colors washed over me,” she said, her tone turning oddly dreamy. “I was happy to comply.”

Jemma felt rather sure that she had been- had been happy, that was, to accept the orders of her masters and carry them out. “I’m just going to sit here for a while. You needn’t pay attention to me.”

The other woman apparently felt no need to comply with Jemma, which made sense, but after a moment she lay back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Jemma stayed in the cool and the quiet for nearly an hour, waiting until she was more settled and until the tremors of the earth had shrunk to occasional shivers before taking her leave. Agent 33 had been silent the entire time, and eventually had turned onto her side, either to sleep or to keep from staring at her. 

There was an energy to the upper floor that Jemma could feel even in her own abandoned section of the halls, and after cautiously making her way toward living quarters she heard the reason why: Nick Fury’s booming voice castigating someone for doing something. She wasn’t quite sure who the culprit was or what they had done, but she wasn’t entirely interested in finding out at that exact moment, anyway. 

And then Phil’s voice rose in anger, and that was enough to drive her into the heart of the conflict despite her better instincts. 

“Dammit, Phil, I gave you the job so that I wouldn’t get dragged into this fucking mess again,” Fury was saying when she edged into the room. The majority of the Avengers were standing around the room, all of them looking some variation of pissed off. “Then I get a call telling me that you’re invading alien cities and involving the Avengers in this shit, and-”

“In all fairness,” she heard herself say, nearly choking on the words when she realized that she was the one speaking, “the Avengers are still SHIELD assets, and as Director he has the right to call in any assets he might wish to have.”

“Gonna try to hit me again?” he asked in reply. 

She quailed at the thought, visibly flinching, and to her surprise he took a step back and lowered his voice. “I suppose she has a point,” he said in a grudging tone. “And if I understand correctly, Natasha was the one who called them in, so…”

Natasha herself stepped forward, draping an arm around Jemma’s shoulders with a smirk. “That’s me, always messing with things I shouldn’t.” 

“If I had known you were going to cause half this much trouble, I never would have let Barton bring you in,” he grumbled in return as Natasha gently drew Jemma toward the door. “Where are you going?”

“I want to talk with Jemma. I’d let her stay, but eventually you’ll say something that will completely overrun her British restraint, and then who knows what would happen?”

Jemma waited until they were out of earshot to reply. “I’d probably collapse on the floor and cry.”

“Maybe. I did that once, on purpose. Nick spent five minutes awkwardly patting my hair before he realized that I was taking him for a ride.” Natasha flashed her a grin. “I wasn’t the one who tipped him off, for the record. It was Clint giggling in the air vent that gave me away.”

She steered her into Jemma’s own bedroom, only releasing her to pull an empty suitcase out of the closet. “I spotted you hanging out with the occupant of Vault D earlier.”

“I needed a quiet space to think.”

“Well, she is quiet.” Why Natasha was packing her things Jemma wasn’t quite sure, but she wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Your conversation with Skye didn’t go well.”

“Sometimes I think you might actually be psychic.”

“Nick tested me. I never made the Index.” Natasha had moved to her underwear drawer, pulling it open without shame. “Which of these are you comfortable in?”

“Which ones cover the most?” Jemma dropped heavily onto the bed, watching as Natasha just shrugged and gathered up an armful. “I understand why Skye said what she said.”

“I do, too. And breaking into Ward’s email accounts just moved up my list of things to do.” Natasha dropped several handfuls of socks into the suitcase, nodding when she saw how Jemma tensed. “I’m going to find every one of those bids,” she assured her. “And I will be neutralizing every threat.”

“I’m not sure what kind of pictures he might have sent,” Jemma mumbled, clenching her hands around the comforter. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

“I’ll find out and take care of that, too.” Natasha turned sharply toward the door when it opened, relaxing only when Phil stepped in. “Phil, help Jemma pack. I’m kicking you off the base for a week.”

“Have you told Fury that, yet?” he asked dryly, though he pulled open a drawer without complaint and began gathering up some of his own clothing. “When I left the room he was trying to dissuade Steve from going after the Winter Soldier.”

Natasha shook her head, her lips thinning. “Good luck with that.”

Jemma kept still on the bed, tracing the faint, blurred imprints of the alien cityscape that had been left on the comforter from their last session. Near the foot of the bed was a bird’s eye view of the temple. 

She had felt more comfortable as a party to that little ritual before knowing what the design meant. Now, the thought of that dead alien city mapped over her body felt distinctly morbid, and she felt the oddest urge to check the top of her feet to make sure the drawing of the temple hadn’t resurfaced, somehow, like a soulmark that she had tried to erase. 

“Still,” Phil was saying, “Skye-”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Natasha said quickly. “I think you should speak with her before you leave, but a week won’t hurt anything.”

Jemma looked up long enough to see Phil give Natasha an odd look, his gaze darting to her briefly. “Apparently Tony has offered us his house in the Alps,” he told her after a moment. “Which side, Nat?”

“The Austrian side, near Solden.” Natasha had moved to the closet, riffling through their clothing idly. “You get to take one suit, Phil. Just one.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Will you be flying us there, Nat?” Jemma asked. 

“Yes.” Natasha smiled slightly. “You look like you are about to ask for a favor.”

“Just a small detour.” Jemma glanced at Phil, who nodded encouragingly. “If we could make a stop in Vegas, just for a few hours…”

Natasha looked momentarily surprised, but her expression quickly turned approving and excited. “Make it a nice suit, Phil.”

“All of my suits are nice,” he protested with a smile. He had moved to stand next to the bed, and at that he picked up Jemma’s hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Thank you, Nat.”

\- - -

“So you’re leaving for a while?” Skye didn’t look surprised, or much of anything at all, really. “I think that’s a good idea, AC.”

She was curled up on one of the couches in the common room, which was currently deserted. He sat on the other end, trying to assess her real feelings on the matter. “You know we’re not abandoning you, right?”

“Oh, I know.” Now one emotion was clear on her face: shame, and the floor beneath them quivered slightly in response. “Please take care of Jemma, AC. I said something really stupid to her.”

Natasha had told him what Skye had revealed about Ward’s plan for Jemma- something that had filled him with so much rage that he had briefly regretted the man’s quick and humane death- but he had a feeling that Skye wasn’t referring to that. “I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.” He reached across the gap between them, placing a hand over hers. “Please let the others take care of you. We love you, Skye.”

“I know.” She laughed tearily. “We have the weirdest family.”

He had told the truth to that doctor, so many months ago. They were Skye’s family. Strange, uncontrollable powers and the appearance of her biological father weren’t going to change that. “You know my number, if you need to talk. Any time of the day or night, Skye.”

“You might regret that offer.” To his surprise she stood, opening her arms in an unmistakable offer of a hug. “Come on,” she said with a roll of her eyes when he didn’t immediately respond. “I won’t shake you to pieces or anything.”

She felt sturdy in his arms, which was a relief, considering how fragile she had been looking over the past few days. “Be kind to yourself,” he whispered, patting her back. “Can you do that for me?”

“I’ll give it my best shot, AC.” She pulled away, summoning a bright, if somewhat weak, smile. “I can at least promise that the base will still be standing when you get back.”

“That’s a place to start.”

He had already made his farewells to May and the others, who all appeared to be settling in for a long stay. Even Sam Wilson didn’t seem to have any plans to leave, though Phil guessed his motives, at least in part, largely revolved around keeping Steve out of trouble.

Phil couldn’t quite blame him. The longer he was around Steve, the more he wondered how he had survived as much of the war as he had. 

Natasha and Jemma were waiting aboard the smallest of the quinjets, discussing something quietly. Their conversation sputtered to a halt when he boarded, though they both smiled to see him. “Strap yourself in,” Natasha ordered. “We’ll be in Vegas before you know it.”

“This is your last chance to opt for a nicer wedding, sweetheart,” he told Jemma as he took the seat next to hers, and she shook her head. 

“I have my heart set on Elvis, jazz man.”

“If that’s what you want, that’s what you shall have.” 

And it lined up nicely with what he wanted: a week of quiet and a wife. There was no reason why a ceremony in a Vegas chapel would make any difference, but the part of him that tended to be old-fashioned found the idea very pleasing. A wedding band on Jemma’s slim hand, and a second band of gold for him. 

“What’s that starry-eyed look for?” Jemma asked him softly, and he smiled and kissed her hand. 

“It’s always for you, Jemma.”


	14. a style that's sanctified

Nearly everything Jemma had packed for herself had been of the slouchy and comfy variety. She doubted they would be leaving the house much, if at all- and if she were honest with herself, now that she knew pictures of her face were circulating through some very dangerous members of various crime rings, she wasn’t feeling particularly touristy.

She did, however, take a serious look at the few nice dresses she still had to her name. Prim sundresses, mainly, but there was, tucked away in an opaque garment bag, a dress that Skye had wheedled her into buying before their lives had turned upside down. Twenties-style, beaded and low-waisted. Blush pink and gold, and falling just to the knees. Absolutely ridiculous as a wedding dress. She had packed it anyway, along with a perfectly respectable navy dress that she had every intention of wearing for her trip down the aisle.

And yet here she was, dressing in the tiny bedroom of one of Natasha’s many safehouses, and she was pulling on the pink and gold dress. She had obviously gone crazy.

Still, she continued on, looping up her hair in a style that synced well enough with the dress. She looked like she had just strode off the set of a period film, and Jemma had to admit that she looked beautiful. Sexy, even, in that kind of way that Phil particularly appreciated. There were still bruises dotting her legs and arms, but with a bit of makeup and a shawl even she couldn’t see them.

It was a struggle to keep from stripping it off and pulling on the prim piece that covered shoulders and decolletage, but she resolutely squared her shoulders and strode through the door before she came to her senses. 

Phil had been chatting with Natasha when she entered the room, but turned as soon as he heard the click of her heels on the floor- and then froze, and made a strangled kind of noise that was very gratifying. “You like it, then?” she asked as Natasha exited quietly. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“I’m not sure there are words in the English language to cover how much I like it,” he replied, a dazed expression on his face. “Or how much I want to know what you have on under it.” He blushed, which was rare for him. “Not that you’re expected to show me.”

She wasn’t in a position to make promises, though she dearly wanted to assure him that he would be finding out exactly what she was wearing under the dress. She felt nervous and turned on all at once, almost as if it were their first time all over again. “You look very handsome.”

He still looked somewhat dazed as she came closer and straightened his tie, barely changing expressions as she brushed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to do my best to show you,” she said softly. “Not ideal, I know.”

His expression did shift at that, turning from dazed to gentle. “No pressure.” He slid his arms around her, keeping them circumspectly above her waistline. “If you aren’t ready, I’ll wrap you in my shirt and tuck you into bed… stroke your hair until you fall asleep… or we could have that Doctor Who marathon I suggested.”

“You hate Doctor Who.”

“I don’t hate it. I just don’t love it; there is a difference.”

“Right.” She brushed her thumb against the same corner of his mouth that she had kissed, wiping away a red smudge from her lipstick. “I suppose I’ll marry you, anyway.”

“We’d better get a license before you change your mind, then.” He drew her arm through the crook of his elbow, the fluid drape of her shawl a sharp contrast to the tailored lines of his very fine suit. 

They slipped into the Clark County Clerk’s office at the tail end of the day’s crush, when the various deputies were weary and just a bit less observant than they should have been. Natasha had handed Jemma a long, black, lightweight coat before they left the car, ensuring that any security cameras would only catch three soberly dressed individuals. License in hand, they made their way to one of the largest chapels in Vegas. 

A woman in her fifties flashed Phil a conspiratorial smile as they approached the receptionist desk. “Found your soulmate at last, I see?” she asked rhetorically, accepting the handful of cash he handed her. “It’s about time, Phil. You’re getting a bit long in the tooth.”

Jemma, shed of the black coat, frowned at that. “Excuse me.”

“Don’t mind me,” the woman said with a smile. “I’ve been giving Phil hell ever since that muck-up in Paris ten years ago.”

“Rightfully so, unfortunately.” Phil shrugged even as Natasha smirked, and Jemma resolved to pull the story out of him one day. “Not my best moment.”

“Now,” the woman said, raising a brow. “Sadly for you, our most discrete Elvis is not the best singer.”

“He can’t be terrible, surely,” Jemma replied.

“No, but- well.” She sighed dramatically. “You’ll see.”

The man was perfectly lovely, in Jemma’s estimation. Before walking her down the aisle (part of the package after all, as it turned out) he had taken the time to chat quietly with her for a few minutes, dimming his exuberant character performance into something much more approachable and almost gentle in order to put her at ease. His first grandchild had been born just a few days before, and with a wink he had pulled a Starkphone out of a pocket and shown her several pictures of the plump-cheeked infant. 

The ceremony itself was as over-the-top as Jemma had suspected it would be, but to her surprise she found that she couldn’t stop smiling. The officiant was funny and personable, and even Natasha was laughing in the front row at his sly wit. Phil had taken Jemma’s arm in his once the ceremony had begun, and every time she looked up at him she found that he was already staring down at her, a soft smile on his face.

It was true that the singing was not quite what it should have been. Their Elvis wasn’t exactly tone deaf, but he bordered that territory, and for a moment his voice was a small shock- and then he had winked at them all in a conspiratorial fashion, pouring such heart and soul into his rendition of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” that Jemma couldn’t help but laugh and pull her arm from the crook of Phil’s elbow, wrapping her arms around her husband-to-be and resting her head against his shoulder. As she did so she caught a glimpse of the second witness to their marriage, Phil’s friend Claire from the front desk, who looked so satisfied by the scene it was as if she had arranged the marriage herself. 

Jemma was the one who leaned in first at the call to kiss the bride, pulling Phil down to her level and kissing him with enthusiasm. “All mine now, jazz man,” she whispered with a smile as Elvis began his final song, and the words earned her a decidedly heated gaze that was not unwelcome. She wanted him- wanted him with a fierceness that she hadn’t felt in weeks. 

There was, of course, a journey to endure first, and it was possible that by the time they arrived her longing would have ebbed into something tamer, something edged with that same timidity which had kept her wrapped in layers, but maybe not. She might be able to have the wedding night she wanted, after all. Or wedding morning, most likely, given the number of hours they would be in the air.

After congratulations and a receiving a copy of the completed license (and Claire’s promise that she would ‘accidentally’ shuffle their paperwork to the bottom of the pile), they left quickly and quietly. Jemma had donned the black coat again, but she kept her right hand twined with Phil’s left, pressing as close to his side as she could without hampering his own movement. 

“We’re married,” she told him with what she suspected was a silly grin once they had boarded the quinjet. “I was worried we would never get this far.”

“We are married.” His tone was wondering, almost dreamy, as he kissed her fingertips and the delicate skin of her inner wrist. “Properly and legally.”

“Which is going to annoy Talbot to no end,” Natasha pointed out dryly as she went through her pre-flight check. “Which will, in turn, lead to Fury asking you if you had taken leave of your senses.”

“Only in the best possible way,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the dip of Jemma’s palm that made her toes curl. “I’m not apologizing to Fury for taking a wife.”

He seemed to realize that he might be coming on too strong (which he wasn’t), because he loosened his grip on her hand and slid an arm around her shoulders. “Feel free to use me as your pillow.”

She wasn’t tired, not yet, but she leaned against him anyway and closed her eyes. They had hours yet before they could be alone. She would take what closeness she could get.

\- - -

Snow was falling when they arrived, thick and fast in the early light, and at first glance he had to admit that Tony- or Pepper, probably Pepper- had chosen this house well: it was small, for a Stark residence, and every inch of it was cozy and well-outfitted. Natasha left them after prowling the length of the house, searching for bugs and pointing out the location of every security camera. 

She exchanged a few private words with Jemma while he checked the kitchen (well-stocked, thankfully, and not just with alcohol), and then made her farewells. Jemma disappeared shortly after into the master bathroom, and the sound of the shower starting filled him with both regret and desire for a shower of his own. 

The regret was solely because he had wanted to slide that dress from her body himself, but her comfort was more important than his fantasies. Something soft and concealing would calm her nerves, as would a good meal and a few hours of deep sleep. If any seduction happened during this trip, it would have to be on her end.

He had showered in one of the other bathrooms and was pulling together a meal by the time he heard her footsteps coming down the hall. “Do you want mimosas?” he asked without turning around, pulling a chilled bottle of champagne from the fridge. “It would almost be sacrilege to dilute wine like this with orange juice, but-”

He was fortunate that he had put the bottle on a nearby counter before turning, because he had a feeling that it would have ended up on the floor if he had still been holding it when he first saw Jemma. She was barefoot, her hair loose around her shoulders, but she was wearing her wedding dress again, the beads gleaming softly in the light.

“And what were you planning on feeding your wife?” she asked, taking a step toward him. “A nice word, isn’t it?”

“It suits you,” he replied, his mouth dry.

“I like the word ‘husband’, too.” 

It was very like their first meeting: him standing still, and her taking those crucial steps to bridge the distance. She looked almost as nervous now as she had then, but she reached out and took one of his hands, drawing it to rest against her marked shoulder. “May I make a suggestion?”

He stroked his thumb over the penultimate _z_ , admiring for the millionth time the astonishing sight of his words against her skin. “Please do.”

“No need to be fancy. Make a plate of something good cold, grab that bottle of champagne, and then come find me.” She rose on her toes and brushed a gentle kiss against his lips. “Do you want to undress me?”

Jemma grinned when his only reaction was shocked silence. “I thought so.”

She was halfway down the hall, that glorious dress swinging in sync with her hips, when she paused and turned back to face him. “I want to be brave,” she said, her face serious. “Because I love you, and I trust you, and I miss how we were in bed.”

“I miss that, too.” More than his own pleasure he missed seeing her own. There was something especially beautiful in Jemma post-orgasm, lying boneless and breathless and wearing a sly smile which he only saw in the privacy of their bed.

He also liked knowing that he was the one who brought that smile to life. He realized that was terribly alpha-male of him, but he was only human. 

“So we’ll see how far we get. But I’ll make it good for you, Phil, I promise.”

“Jemma.” He waited until she met his eyes to continue. “Your pleasure is the only pleasure I care about.”

She blushed, the tense set of her shoulders easing. “Hurry.”

Fruit, cheese, charcuterie and fresh bread- all within reach and easy enough to arrange on a tray with the bottle of champagne and two glasses. “That is a hell of a dress,” he told her once he entered the bedroom, placing the tray on one of the dressers. “I’m not sure I ever told you.”

“You didn’t.” She smoothed her hands over the beading on her hips, looking pleased. “I never thought I would wear it- Skye dared me to buy it, really.”

She turned, lifting her hair to reveal the row of small buttons down the back of the dress. “Would you do the honors?”

Button by button, inch by inch- revealing both her lovely skin and still fading bruises, as well as blush colored silk. A vintage style bra and tap pants, with- God help him- another row of buttons down each hip and an inset of lace. 

“You picked these just to torture me,” he said, his voice alarmingly hoarse to his own ears. He was kneeling by her side at that point, unable to tear his gaze from the contrast of pink silk and the pale skin peeking between the gaps. “Wow.”

“Fair trade.” When he looked up she was smiling hesitantly, her stance less confident and more uncertain. “Lose a few layers, please.”

Simply undressing did not seem to be the right move, not at that moment, and as he considered her expression an idea came to mind. A rather wild idea, because he really was not of an age to be doing a striptease, but she looked like she wouldn’t mind a distraction at the expense of his dignity. 

Her lips twitched first as she realized his intentions, and then an incredulous giggle escaped her as he undid the buttons of his shirt more slowly than was his usual wont, and certainly with more shaking of his hips. 

“What- what-”

Then he tossed her his shirt and she burst out laughing, staggering backward to sit on the bed. 

“Not enjoying the show?” he asked her teasingly, and she shook her head quickly, laughing so hard actual tears were sliding down her cheeks. 

“No, no. Keep going.” She dabbed the sleeve of his shirt against her eyes. “This is much more of a turn-on than you realize.”

It was SHIELD training, rather amusingly, that allowed him to lose his shoes, socks, and pants without tripping all over himself. “I think you’ve done this before,” she noted with a laugh, his shirt still in her lap. “Please tell me Striptease 101 isn’t a class at the academy.”

“More like ‘how to rid yourself of any unnecessary clothing in sixty seconds or less’.” His bruises were worse than hers, especially on his back, but she didn’t appear to notice as he moved toward her clad only in his underwear. “Never know when you might need to ditch your coat while submerged in an ice-covered lake.”

“Or your trousers?” she replied archly.

“Those too.”

Amused as she was, he sensed that she was on the verge of blushing and growing tense once more. “Let me help you put this on,” he said, touching a finger to his shirt. “If you like.”

He meant over her current ensemble, but after giving him a perceptive look she reached up and unhooked her bra, allowing it to drop to her lap. The remnant of one burn mark was still visible on the inner curve of her right breast. “Maybe now,” she murmured after a moment, and allowed him to draw the shirt on over her arms to settle on her shoulders. She didn’t button it- didn’t even draw it close to cover her breasts- but just having the fabric fall around her made her sit up visibly straighter. 

She moved to sit against the headboard, holding out her hand to him in silent invitation. Her first act, once he was seated beside her, was to run her fingers over the wedding band on his left hand. “I like seeing this on you.”

“I like seeing yours on you.” She looked beautiful in her silk and white cotton, with the crisp black across her collarbone and the gleam of gold on her left hand. A single inset diamond glittered in the light of the lamp. He had offered her more elaborate rings, but she had picked that one, because- she had said with a smile- it would fit under her gloves in the lab. “How are you feeling, wife?”

She looked briefly startled by the word, but her expression quickly softened. “Your wife would like a kiss.”

“Just one?”

“Or five.” She settled herself on his lap, knees on either side of his hips. “And how is my husband?”

“In dire need of a kiss.”

“Well.” She shifted lightly on his lap, a devilish expression on her face, and lifted the hand she held to curve it around one of her breasts. “Our interests seem to dovetail nicely.”

She met him for one long and tender kiss, which would have been incredibly arousing even without the warm weight he held neatly in one hand. “Perhaps I could be on top?” she asked in a murmur when they parted. 

“The shots are yours to call.”

She took him at his word, and she was obviously in no hurry to reach any kind of finish line. He would have called their lovemaking languorous, if his cognitive functions had been operating at that level. As it was, what brain cells he could call to attention were focused on doing exactly as she wanted. It was like a dance, in a way- she didn’t so much voice her preferences as use body language to guide him, and she made it very clear that she was quite pleased with the way he took direction. 

“Good?” he asked once he could speak again, almost afraid to even open his mouth for fear that she might move from her spot. She lay draped over him, making soft, contented noises against his neck. 

“You get high marks for honeymoon sex.” She stretched lazily, which was an interesting and possibly even inspirational experience. To his regret she moved to lie beside him, the wrinkled shirt she still wore the perfect frame for her body. That fascinating bit of silk and lace underwear she had been wearing was somewhere unknown, and he made a mental note to pack them safely away for another night. “And I’m feeling very good,” she continued, meeting his gaze squarely. “Perhaps not ‘tie me to the headboard’ good, but definitely better than I have been.”

“And I didn’t push you too far?”

He hated that he had to ask- and he knew that if she had made an overt attempt to put an end to things, he would have noticed and responded immediately- but there was always the fear that she might have gone farther than was comfortable as a kindness, of sorts. 

“Asks the man who would have let me cuff his hands to the railing while I rode him, if that had pleased me.” The smile she gave him was warm and utterly sure. “Everything was exactly what I wanted. And you were well taken care of, I think?” 

“ _Yes_.”

“How certain you sound.”

“I’m certain about that.” He took in several deep breaths, still feeling mentally scattered. “Not quite certain what day it is, though. My name is Phil, right?”

“Last I checked.”

She slid off the bed while he was distracted, and when he glanced over at her found she was making her way toward the bathroom. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, flashing him a quick smile. “You might want to think about opening that champagne.”

He wasn’t sure he had the strength to open it neatly, but if she wanted champagne she would definitely be getting champagne. 

They had a small picnic at the foot of the bed amidst the rumpled sheets and blankets, drinking no longer chilled wine and working their way through the food. She was eating heartily, he was happy to see, and she lounged next to him with every appearance of ease, still wearing his shirt. 

“Have you thought about some kind of plan?” she asked eventually, having moved to sit against the footboard. He had topped up her glass only moments before, and she held a half-eaten strawberry between two delicate fingers.

He was resisting the urge to kiss the traces of strawberry juice from her lips. She looked too focused for that. “I’ve been brainstorming a few plans. Anything in specific?”

“For us.” She shrugged, blushing slightly. “I really would be happy if you were no longer Director- not because I don’t want your career to advance- but the additional, albeit theoretical, free time wouldn’t necessarily equal freedom.”

She had a point. If Nick took over once more, he would be under outside orders- and while that relieved him of overseeing every other SHIELD cell on the planet, it was hardly a free pass. “I’m still thinking on that.”

“No Victorian in the Cotswolds,” she murmured with a smile. “Though we wouldn’t be able to have that anyway, not with Hydra out and about.” She looked uneasy, all of a sudden. “And my… admirers.”

“Those assholes won’t be laying a single finger on you.”

She looked momentarily startled by his heated tone, and then smiled. “Such language.”

It had been bad enough when she had only been a target because of her association with SHIELD and with him, but now unknown pictures were circling with her name and pertinent details attached, and that was beyond the pale. “Nat will track down every name and every image,” he reminded her, wishing that Skye were in ready enough form that he could also recruit her for the task. “And you will be perfectly safe, Jemma.”

She drew her knees up against her chest, feet turned in and overlapping in front of her. “If there are naked pictures of me floating around the internet, you won’t be embarrassed, will you?”

“What, for my own pride? No.” He considered her sadly, wishing they didn’t have to have this conversation. “I’ll be outraged for your sake, and fiercely protective, but embarrassed or angry at you- never.”

“Well. That’s good.” She sighed and offered him a shaky smile. “I admit that I don’t know what I want, either. A bit more normalcy, a baby, eventually… but I know we’ll never be a normal couple.”

“You’re right. Most couples don’t have trackers in their wedding rings.” He moved to sit beside her, draping an arm around her shoulders. “We could always run off and start that coffee shop in Seattle.”

“I’m told there are already too many coffee shops in Seattle.”

“Exactly. We’ll blend in.” 

Her tense posture was relaxing as she leaned against his side, and slowly but surely she eased back into something close to her post-orgasm state: warm, sleepy-eyed, and free of tension. “And if we lived in a little apartment in Seattle, would you still be happy to have me and the daily grind?” she asked in a murmur.

“Now look who’s punning.” He angled himself toward her, bending to brush a kiss against her hairline. “A cozy apartment… we could paint the walls something cheerful. Maybe live above the shop so we wouldn’t have to commute. Adopt a pet.”

“I like cats.”

“So we get a cat.”

They could get a cat. The Playground probably had mice, anyway. 

“But we’ll find a place with a spare bedroom,” he continued, keeping his voice quiet. “Because one day we’ll need space for a crib.”

“It’s completely impossible.” She was beginning to sound tipsy, and even he was feeling a bit of a buzz. “But I do like this little fantasy life.”

“Me, too.” He took a long look at her, fully appreciating her tousled hair and and the relaxed, content expression on her face. The amount of skin on show was nice, too, if rather more bruised than he was comfortable with. “Though this life has its high points.”

“Too many near-death scares.” She brushed a finger lightly against the scar on his chest, frowning. “You are a magnet for trouble.”

“I could say the same for you.”

She laughed at that. “I was perfectly boring before I joined the team, thank you.” 

“Safer, maybe. Definitely not boring.” 

She straightened, wrapping her free arm around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. When she pulled back it was barely an inch, just far enough that he could meet her gaze. “You’re not boring, either,” she murmured. “In fact, I find you fascinating.”

“Do you?”

“Hmm-mm.” She rubbed the tip of her nose against his playfully. “I’m ready for sleep, I think. You?”

“I could be persuaded.”

He expected her to pull on pajamas, but instead once their plates were cleared away she climbed into bed wearing just his unbuttoned shirt, curling up against him skin to skin. “You’re always so warm,” she told him in the dim room. “I like that. I’m not pressing against one of your bad bruises, am I?”

“No.” Her body was too relaxed and loose for her to be anything but comfortable, and all she did when he wrapped his arms around her was nestle closer. “I love you.”

“Oh, I know.” She yawned, and pressed a kiss to the scar above his heart. “I love you, too.”

\- - -

Jemma awoke to afternoon light creeping around the curtains and an empty bed. She would have been perturbed by that, but she could hear him singing ( _singing_ , he must be happy) in the kitchen, and that went a long way to appeasing her. 

A leisurely stretch brought a satisfied smile to her face, as she luxuriated in the softness of the sheets and the ache in her muscles that reminded her she had been well-loved earlier that day. She wouldn’t mind a round two.

Still, not a miracle cure. She acknowledged the fact as she gathered clothing and went to take another shower. Jemma knew better than to think that she would be entirely comfortable with standing in close proximity with strange men anytime soon, or that she would even feel comfortable jumping into bed with Phil at any given moment. She was _better_ , though, and didn’t regret a single moment of the consummation of her marriage.

The remembrance of the morning had her feeling amorous as she walked into the kitchen, enough so that when Phil turned to greet her she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him heatedly. 

“Hello to you, too,” he murmured, following her as she moved them backward until her back bumped against the counter. “I’m sorry, I thought you would sleep a little longer while I started dinner.”

“Early for dinner,” she commented, holding him firmly against her. 

“The steaks need to marinate for a few hours. I was going to get them started, then come back to bed and admire my wife.” 

He was taking his cues from her, she realized without surprise. If she had edged into the room and kept to the other side of the counter, she would be getting a far gentler Phil right now. “You’d better take care of that, then,” she replied, loosening her grip on him. “I’m in the mood to be admired.”

She did go to the other side of the counter at that, but leaned against it with her best _come hither_ look so that he wouldn’t get the wrong idea. “It’s because I trust you,” she said suddenly, feeling as if he needed to hear the words again. “You make such an effort to keep me comfortable, Phil, and I see it. I love you, and I trust you.” 

When he paused, considering her words, she continued. “And I want you. When you kissed my palm on the plane, I nearly climbed onto your lap.”

He put aside the package of brown sugar that had been in his hand and leaned against the counter opposite her. “That dress nearly had me on the floor,” he said. “But I would have slept on the couch, if you had asked me to.”

“I know.” She reached across the counter and took his hand, rubbing her thumb against his wedding ring. “So finish what you’re doing, because after I’m done with you we’re both going to need a good meal.”

She lit a fire in the living room while he finished preparations in the kitchen, and was lounging on the couch by the time he joined her. “I like this house,” she informed him as she moved to sit on his lap. “A pity we can’t just stay here.”

“It’s surprisingly cozy for Tony. Usually he goes the ultra-modern route.”

The immediacy of her desire had dimmed, though not unpleasantly: it was simply lovely to curl up with him in front of a fireplace and let him pet her. 

After a while she shifted positions and kissed him, gradually drawing him down on top of her and gauging her reaction as she did so. She hadn’t been sure about giving him the dominant position, but she always had liked feeling his weight on her- and she still did. Because he was Phil, and because he would immediately roll off of her onto the floor if she pushed him away, and because she felt so safe sheltered underneath him. 

“When was the last time we were this relaxed?” she asked in an interval, one of his hands underneath her shirt and warm against her skin. “When we just lay about and snogged like teenagers?”

“Greece, I think.” The brush of his thumb against her nipple made her squirm. “Far too long.”

He shifted their positions so that they were spooned up on their sides, and slipped his hand under her waistband when she pouted at the loss of his weight. “Just relax,” he said, kissing the curve of her ear. “Let me take care of you.”

He had callouses on his fingertips, and chuckled when she pointed out that fact in a breathless voice. “I hadn’t considered that,” he murmured. “I’m glad it pleases you, sweetheart.”

It was afterward, as she lay in drowsy contentment and considered how she might repay the favor, that he brought up one topic she hadn’t expected to discuss with him. “Is everything all right between you and Skye?”

That dispelled some of the lovely afterglow, but not as much as she might have expected. With his arms around her and one hand pressed warm against her stomach, Ward’s plans for her seemed very far away. “She’s just having a rough time of it. She said something regrettable, that’s all.”

“Will you tell me?”

Jemma considered the request. “She said that she wished she had never taken my place. I can’t blame her for it.”

He sighed, pulling her closer. “Neither can I, though I wish that she hadn’t said that to you.”

“It put me in a bad place for a bit,” she admitted. “We’re all a little fragile right now, aren’t we?”

“From a certain perspective. From my perspective, you are anything but fragile.” He nuzzled his nose against her hair, a sweet sensation that had her smiling and wriggling to turn in his arms. “My wife is the strongest person I know.”

“I have a strong husband to lean on.” 

He really was an excellent kisser. A pity they couldn’t stay here indefinitely, engaging in hedonistic pleasures and cut off from the weirder parts of the world. As fascinating as the weirder parts were, she was becoming weary of the dark underbelly.

They had this week, at least, and then it was back to the cold Playground and the quiver of earth beneath their feet. Jemma was not so blase about her encounter with Skye as she had put forward- her friend’s words had cut deep, and even if Ward seemed so very far away at the present moment, she had a feeling that he would be haunting her once they returned to the confines of the base. The Playground lent itself to ghosts of all kinds. 

He drew back slightly, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. “We’re going to be fine, sweetheart,” he said, as if he had heard her every thought. “I might be running a little low on faith at the moment, but I have faith in us.” He flashed her a quick grin. “Especially now that we don’t have to worry about aliens taking over my brain.”

“That is a relief.” She kissed him quickly, draping one leg over his to pull his hips closer to hers. “I’m growing very fond of Phil 3.0.”

“The extra-devoted version intent on making love to his wife?”

“Is there any other?” 

His ardent expression softened. “When we get back…”

“Yes?” she prompted, half-expecting to hear something about long hours and new missions.

“...I’m going to teach you how to drive Lola.”

She stared at him for a moment, amused. “You are desperate for a shag, aren’t you?”

She was pretty sure the word he called her was ‘minx’, but she was so distracted by the way he was tickling the sensitive skin along her ribs that she wasn’t entirely sure. “I get to touch Lola,” she said in a teasing, sing-song fashion once she had regained her breath and stopped laughing. “I must rate.”

“Of course you get to touch Lola; you’re my wife.” He gave her his best Agent Coulson glare, which was somewhat spoiled by the fact that his arousal was pressed firmly against her. “You get to touch a lot of things.”

“Is that so?” she asked, relishing the wicked impulse she was feeling. “There’s only one thing I want to touch right now.”

“My wife definitely gets to touch _that_.” He dropped the act abruptly, looking concerned. “Okay, sweetheart?”

She smiled, snuggling closer. “Kiss me, jazz man.”

Let the ghosts come. She would have her honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As often happens with me, the story is much longer than I ever expected it to be. As a result I have run out of titles from the song I originally chose! Because of this, I have chosen to end part one here, and will post the first chapter of part two sometime next weekend. Be on the look-out!


End file.
